#anyone who followed me then or looks at my archive or even just my frequently used tags will know the OBSESSION

[smellrain]

𝐧𝐡𝟏𝟑 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭

in which: nico and you had met years ago in a cold rink in canada but then lost touch for several reasons. It's hard, growing and correcting mistakes of your past but you try anyway.

tags: written, angst, hopeful ending, mentions of: depression, injuries, hospitals, doctors, etc. (masterlist)

notes: [5.1k] I have no idea what this is? I woke up, wrote the entire thing and passed out again for 2 hours. Tried polishing it through editing? Yeah. It turned out a lot different than the rest of my stuff so far, so it's scary posting this. Come & tell me if you liked it.

The ice was as harsh as it was unforgiving. 

The cold air of the rink has seeped into your bones years ago and the reddend tips of your fingers went numb a while ago, but you were used to it by now. Nothing really mattered when you got like this, too caught up in your head for anyone to reach. 

Not even yourself. 

You had been home and then suddenly not, your body already knowing what you needed before your mind caught up to it. 

The rink wasn’t open, not yet, but you had gotten a key years ago. The owner, David, had been the only one that had looked at you the same back then. There had been a knowing sort of look in his eyes when he had seen you waiting for him at the front door stepps, eyes red. 

He had given you a key, because he had seen you for who you were: a girl whose entire life had collapsed around her. 

Bronze at fifteen, silver at sixteen, gold forever out of reach. 

You could still remember the red pen tucked into your doctor’s coat. The ‘my condolences, but’, the white light, the letter in your hand, the sinking realisation that this was it. 

That you were going to be one of the several girls that had pushed their body too far.

The same way you had done everything back then you had followed the instructions of your therapist to the letter. Stretching, compressions, different exercises. Still, there was no full recovery, no chance of ever skating professionally again. 

That might be the worst part, still being able to skate but knowing that you will never be able to feel it anymore. That you were cursed to be in this limbo, never letting go of it but never being able to live for it anymore. 

The harsh sound of your blade cutting over the fresh ice was as pleasant as it was torture. You wanted more, but you had to settle for this. You had to learn that this was all you were ever going to get. 

These select few hours in the early morning, just before your classes started, before you had to start living your life. 

You could feel yourself drawing harsh breaths, but it didn’t matter. You had pushed through worse, hunger, hurt and feelings just to stand here for a bit longer. The ringing in your ear accumulated when you thought about all that you had lost, that you could never regain.

Suddenly the heavy door of the entrance fell closed. You slowed down, curious who it might be. The clock in the corner of your vision reflected a red 05:57 back at you. It was too early for it to be anyone aside from David or another person with a key, someone like you.

It was a guy, a bag in his hand and another slung over his shoulder. 

You would recognize the equipment anywhere, familiar with it in a distant way. It must be a hockey player that David had picked out out of the hundreds that frequented this place. 

For some reason you already didn’t like him. Maybe because unlike you, he had the chance of actually archiving his dreams. Bitterness was an annoying but frecent emotion that stained the back of your mouth. 

You wanted. You wanted more than this. You wanted the early morning practices, the ones after school, the rigidous schedule, the heavy monitoring. What were you without all that?

The static in your mind had been interrupted by his arrival but you hardly noticed, more focused on the way he walked down the stairs, casually like he had done so hundreds of times already.

It was almost six, which meant it was time to get off the ice anyways, so you circled a few laps, rotating your wrists and shoulders to feel if anything was off, and then made your way towards the outside of the rink. 

“You look pretty,” said the boy from where he was tying his shoelaces up on the benches. “Out on the ice, I mean.”

Something in you hurt at that, as if your heart started pulling at its own strings. It’s been a while since anyone has watched you skate,, since you let someone else watch you. There was a sharp kind of anger rising up in you that it had been him watching you which dissipated as soon as you looked back at him.

It wasn’t his fault. There really was something wrong with you.

You knew your parents didn’t approve of you being here, but they couldn’t look at you anymore when you skated, disappointed that this was how it had ended. Disappointed in you.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice completely scraped raw. You hoped he didn’t notice it. 

“I’m Nico,” he said, approaching you. He held out his hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves yet but his dark shirt had thumbholes that his thumb peeked through which was weirdly endearing on him. 

You looked back up to his face. There was a tired but polite smile plastered on it but you didn’t have the energy to give him one. Instead you simply told him your name and took his hand. Even through his layer of fabric it was warm beneath your icy fingers.

He didn’t flinch at the cold of your hand and instead started genuinely smiling which took you by surprise. People didn’t react to meeting you like this, not anymore. 

Then, without saying anything else, he took off his guards and stepped on the ice, skating around to warm up. You watched him for a bit while scraping off the excess ice and putting your skates away. 

His skating was differentthan yours; not as delicate. The beauty of it had been hammered into you from an early age on which didn’t seem to be the case form him. It was weird, not being on the ice, being the one to watch instead. 

You changed back into your shoes and walked up the steps. 

From the top, which wasn’t all that high because this rink wasn’t that big, he seemed small. You wondered if you looked like that too, if anyone had thought that when you fell down, when they had seen you sprawled on the ice at fifteen, not being able to get up again. 

A sick shudder passed through you. You wondered if you had ever gotten up from that ice.

Then you turned around, your back to him and left without saying goodbye. 

~*~

The next time you saw him again, was two days later, just after six. 

You knew you were going to be late for class but didn’t really care. Today you weren’t as cooped up in your own head, but it was still hard to let go of these stolen few hours of freedom and face reality. 

“Hey,” Nico said, “it’s you again.”

“Hello,” you said in return. He stepped on the ice and you fought off the urge to leave immediately. That would be impolite, a voice reminded you in your head, even if you didn’t want him to be here right now.

“Are you here every morning?” he asked you, falling into step beside you and therefore joining you on your cooldown laps. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. Couldn’t he just do his own thing? Did he have to come talk to you? “Yes.” 

"Dedicated. I only come every second day,” he said as if it mattered to you. You might have to leave early every second day now to avoid talking to him, which made your scowl even worse. 

“Okay.” You said instead. 

He hummed in reason but dropped the conversation after. When you took a look at him from the corner of your eye he didn’t seem deterred at your attitude, seemingly just satisfied that he got a response.

After another lap in, you hated to admit it but companionable silence, you left, without saying anything but this time he waved back at you from below. You didn’t return his gesture. 

~*~

Despite your early judgement, the two of you formed some kind of routine over the next few weeks. You came early, and sometimes you left a protein bar for him in the stands and sometimes he brought  you a hot tea for when you got off the ice. 

Still, always without fail, he joined you for a few laps. He talked about his life and sometimes asked you a few questions. Sometimes you answered him, other times you didn’t. He never pressed for answers. 

Nico told you that he was from Switzerland, which explained the heavy accent. He just joined Halifax, and he came early to work on his technique, preferring to do so in silence without his teammates chirping at him. You, in turn, told him that you had skated, professionally, before your injury. He didn’t ask for details about either of these things and you didn’t share of your own accord. 

Slowly, so slowly that you didn’t even notice, you realised that he had become your friend. 

It was strange. You hadn’t made friends in a long time. Before, you had had school friends, but because you never hung out outside of it, always training, it never deepend. 

A weird sort warmth seeped in under your skin at the thought of the two of you being friends like a steady fire that kept you warm at night.

The friends you had made while skating splintered along with your knee. 

It was hard, you knew that, to see their worst fear reflected back at them, but it was still hard for you to reach out, so you simply stopped talking to each other. 

On your bad days you thought that it was all their fault, on your good you knew that it was a mutual mistake. 

The thing about Nico was that he was hard to pin down. He was hardworking, thrived under pressure and loved hockey. He was also afraid of falling and failing, he loved sitting under the sun in the summers, feeling his skin heat up and his favorite colour was green, but he admitted that it changed every few weeks. 

You knew that this friendship wouldn’t last, not really. Neither of you had any way of reaching out to the other, and neither expressed the desire to do so but it was still nice, this tentative kinship.

~*~

“Have you ever played hockey?” he asked you, once. 

It must have been a Saturday or Sunday because you were in no hurry to get off the ice, instead basking in his company. 

“No,” you answered, simply.

He grinned, “you are missing out.”

“Really now?” you asked, teasingly, when you turned around to skate with your front to him.

“Really. I wanna teach you,” he said, leaving the choice up to you without outright asking. If you wanted to you could just brush it off and the conversation would continue. 

Instead you said, “yeah, sure, why not.”

His smile was blinding, the adoration for his sport bleeding from every inch of his skin. It was a good look on him, happiness. Distantly you wondered if anyone had ever thought that about you.

It was different, skating with a stick in your hands but it was fun. He taught you how to shoot and aim at a certain spot which you weren’t half bad at if you stood still.

Hours later when the two of you stepped off the ice your tea was cold but you hardly noticed it.

~*~

Another day you asked him what he was reaching for. 

“Olympics,” he had answered immediately but after a beat of silence he looked up as if the lights in the ceiling were stars he could wish upon. “I think I want someone to look at me and think ‘I want to do that. I want to start playing hockey.’”

You looked at him and the only thought that crossed your mind was that he was the reason you could step off the ice again, that you knew you would always be able to come back, just one more time. 

“I like that,” you said because it was true. 

He tilted his head back to you, and the way his eyes glimmered with a rare vulnerability made your breath catch. Or maybe that was just the effect he had on you, standing still, alive and just in reach.

Oh. 

That was that feeling in your chest. 

~*~

Yet another day he joined you on the ice and you immediately kicked him off again. 

“What did I say about injuries?” you asked, frustrated in a way only he could make you. 

“That they were not to be ignored,” he parroted back, his gaze between his feet as if staring at his ankle would magically heal it. 

“Exactly,” you said. Then, gentler than before, “you need to give yourself time to heal, otherwise you will never get better.”

He looked back up to where you were hovering above him. “Okay.”

You didn’t want him to have the last word. “Okay,” you said firmly and sat down next to him. 

The two migrated up to the changing rooms  where he sat on a bench with his ankle elevated while you worked through your stretches, your knewww aching in phantom pain.

~*~

Today your mind was quiet.

It was your last time and you had wanted to take it all in again, one last time. You were moving, your father had gotten a new job somewhere in New Jersey. You knew it was good, a new start away from everything, a chance to start over. 

But still, you were going to miss this. The rink, the quiet, the place you had grown up in. The place that was your prison as much as it was your salvation. 

As you looked up towards the ceiling, the lights shining down on you, the dark gary that seemed black in contrast, you thought you should cry. This was the perfect moment to, and you hadn’t yet. 

Then, the door opened. 

You were surprised because he wasn’t supposed to be here today. Nico had been here yesterday and the two of you had argued about your favorite brand of cereal, and you selfishly had wanted to leave it at that. 

To leave your friendship without having to say goodbye, without having to ever really let go of him. 

“Nico,” you breathed, before you could stop yourself. 

“Hey you,” he said, as he came up to you. You didn’t even realise that you had stopped moving. 

“It’s late,” he stated. You looked up to the clock and sure enough, it was almost twenty past. 

“Ah,” you said, uncaring. It’s not like you had school today. You wondered when he went to school, if his just started later than yours had. In all your talks you had never actually talked about it. 

And you never were going to anymore, you had to remind yourself. Suddenly it was a lot harder to breathe through the ache in your chest. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you knew he meant it, “you look, I don’t know, sad?”

“I’m moving,” before he could ask anything more, “like tomorrow. This is the last time I’m going to see you in a while.”

“Oh.” The expression on his face was hurt, because he must have realised that you had intended to leave without saying anything. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “for everything.” You weren’t really sure for what, but it seemed like the right thing to say. For your intentions, the way you acted, maybe.

“It’s okay,” he said, but it wasn’t, not really. You knew that and he knew that you knew.

“I’m moving to New Jersey.”

He was quiet for a bit.”America,” he started. Then, “do you want to exchange numbers?”

You ignored the sting behind your eyes. “I’m probably going to have to get a new simcard, but you can give me yours.”

The two of you skated back to the door, from where you had stood still in the middle of the open space. He got a piece of paper and a pen from his bag and then somewhat messily tore off the corner of a worksheet and scribbled down his number in blue ink and signed it with his name.

He looked up at you but neither of you said anything for a while. What was there to say, anymore? 

“Don’t forget about me,” he ended up telling you and you reached out to hug him. He was warm under your hands, steady and you were going to miss this, him.

“Don’t forget me either,” you murmured into the crook of his neck. 

Still, in the back of your mind, you knew that you were never going to use his number. You were going to cut off your old life before it could follow you to your new one. But for once you had told him the truth, you weren’t going to forget about him, probably ever. 

And that was that. You said goodbye, waved and you left him there. He returned the gesture, face unreadable and you were sad that the last time he looked at you he wasn’t smiling.

From the top you looked down at him one last time. He seemed bigger now, compared to that first time you had looked down at him, still filled with bitterness.

Maybe that was just your imagination, or maybe it was his confidence after playing with his current team, after seeing his results pay off. 

You turned and let the door fall closed behind you. 

Then, and only then tears started to well up in your eyes. You ignored them and moved on. Always looking ahead, never back. 

Still, you kept the number tucked away safely hidden in a small corner of your wallet. A piece of him that you would always carry with you. 

~*~

You made new friends, graduated and decided to attend college. Got diagnosed with chronic depression and mild anxiety, got a boyfriend and broke it off again after three months, cried, laughed and finally lived. 

But there was part of you hidden in the corner of your wallet, too.

~*~

If you were being honest, Nico didn’t really cross your mind when your friend asked you to go to a hockey game with you. 

In a way he did, because he had been one of your few friends that played hockey, but it was more of an oh yeah, the sport Nico loved and not oh yeah I’m going to a hockey game and I wonder if Nico is still playing, I wonder if he made it to the big leagues. 

Okay, maybe that was a bit of a lie, but still. You hadn’t expected this. 

The two of you went to the Prudential Center and you were excited despite your earlier apprehension. Your phone with the blocked tags of icehockey and nhl seemed to burn a hole in your pants but it’s not like anyone would know. 

Your friend had told you a bit about the team, but if you were being honest, you could not remember any of their names, much less which position and line they played. 

When the players got announced, the home team first, you froze. Suddenly the noise of the cheers around you were completely quiet until they flooded back to you, a harsh reminder of reality.

Because it was him. That was Nico. Your Nico. Or like your past Nico.

There, with a red thirteen and a small C over his chest, was Nico. He was all grown up now, and instead of thinking wow, he is kind of attractive when he smiled at the camera, you thought, holy shit, he is really, really handsome. 

Your friend picked up on your strange behaviour. “What's wrong?”

I know him, you wanted to scream. I think he saved my life without meaning to, and I think I loved him but I never told him. What came out instead was, “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly even more worried, “do you need fresh air? Or do you just want to leave?”

You wanted to stay. You wanted to shoot a puck at his head and tell him to look up at you, the way he had done back then. 

“No, don’t worry about it,” you said and when didn’t change at your reply, you added, “I’m just going to get some water. I think it might be the crowd or something.”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to come with?”

You knew how much she had been looking forward to it, and besides there was nothing she could help you with anyhow. “No, really, it’s all good. Just need to breathe for a second.”

She gave you a look, and you smiled despite wanting to curl up in a corner and cry, “if you are sure. But if anything,” she took your hand in hers, “if anything is wrong call me. I’m gonna have my phone in my hand the entire time.”

You squeezed her hand the same way your heart did at her words. “Thank you, really, but it’s okay. I'll be right back.”

Then you fled up the stands and you couldn’t help but think about the first time you had seen him, how you had left without saying anything. You looked down, just once, and spotted him immediately, as if he was the north pole to your south, your eyes drawn to him. 

He seemed even bigger now, as if he had finally grown into the steady confidence he had had, even back then. 

You smiled. He deserved it, genuinely. You were glad that he did end up making it to the big leagues, even if some part of you hurt at that. You still missed ice skating, your rink from back then, David, but most of all you missed what could have been if you hadn’t been scared. 

What could have been if you had just texted him. 

Regret was a useless emotion to feel, but all of a sudden you felt yourself drown in and you coughed once, just to ease that feeling in your throat.

Then you turned your back to the ice and walked up the rest of the stairs to the stands to get yourself some water. 

It was useless trying to think about any of it now, so you pushed the thoughts aside for later. 

~*~

A week later you were drunk. It was a Friday evening and you had finally finished the gruelling lab you had worked on for the entire day. 

You were hanging out in your friend’s room, the same friend that had taken you to the game a week before. Two of your other friends were sat ob the floor, leaning gainst the opposite bed and a warm, content feeling spread through your chest. 

You had friends now. 

“What’s wrong?” she suddenly asked from where she was sat next to you on her bed, her back against the headboard, yours against the wall adjacent to it.

“Nothing,” you answered because nothing was. 

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me, tell me,” she said, “you've been quiet ever since we came back from the game a week ago and I’ve waited long enough for you to say something, so now I’m going to.”

Had you been that obvious? Or did she just know you that well? Either way, she deserved the truth, the full truth.

“I just,” you began and stopped again, starting to peel off the sticker on your beer with the blunt edge of your nail. 

“When I was younger, I skated.” You started. You knew that she had never expressed any kind of interest in skating so you elaborated further, “really well.” Wow, you were really eloquent tonight.

“Okay,” she said, no doubt wondering where you were going with this. 

Your mind was fuzzy around the edges because of the drinks which made harder than usual to focus on your words, but it made it easier to talk about it, too. These people didn’t know about anything that had been, only what was. “I was good enough to win. Olympics, I mean.”

Suddenly one of the other two friends from the other side of the room joined in. “The Olympics?”

“Yeah,” you said, staring firmly at the bottle in your hands, not looking at any of them. “I won bronze and silver, fifteen and sixteen.”

“Holy shit,” she said, as did your other friend, but one of them remained quiet, so you looked at her. 

From the look in her eyes you knew that she knew. “And then I fell, badly. Tried to get up again but couldn’t. Went to the doctor and you know,” you trailed off, “retired. Started physiotherapy, got a lot better but…”

“Not enough to ever compete again,” she finished for you. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice hoarse. “But I couldn’t let go of it, you know? So sometimes, before school, I snuck out to the local rink and skated around just because I didn’t know anything else.”

Your friend that was next to you on the bed made an encouraging noise, and laid a hand on your knee, so you continued. 

“Then I met a guy. I was in a bad mental place, not really talking to anyone unless I had to, but we somehow became friends.”

Then you looked at them, “I don’t know, it was a weird friendship because we only ever saw each other at the rink every few days, but I felt something for him anyway. It wasn’t quite love but could have been, maybe.”

The others were still listening, and the words rushed out before you could stop yourself. “Then I moved. Wanted to leave before saying goodbye because that would hurt too much. On the day I was leaving I saw him anyway. He gave me his number but I never used it.”

“You wanted to make a clean cut?” your friend asked. 

“Yeah. It was sefish, because it wasn’t just about me, you know? I should have told him how I felt, but I didn’t.” You shook your head, “but that’s not even the point. I saw him again at the game.”

“Oh,” your friend that had dragged you to it, said. 

“Yeah,” you answered, and your other friend asked, “why didn’t you talk to him?”

The other friend, the one that had never asked you about your skating, even though she had known, even though she had every opportunity to, said, “because he was playing, right?”

“Yeah,” you said and you wanted to cry. You could still hear his name announced by the speakers. “Funny, all the time we spent together and I never knew his last name.”

“Who is it?” she asked, gentle, and you knew you could just not answer. You could bury it deep down, once and for all. But that’s not what you wanted to do, not anymore. 

“Nico Hischier.” And your friend laughed. 

“Of course it’s the captain,” she said and you couldn’t help but join in, the effects of the alcohol cursig through your veins. What were the chances, really? That he ended up in the state you had moved to all those years ago.

The others joined it. “He changed his number by now, I’m sure.”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” one of them said. 

All of you were quiet for a second. “Wait, I have an idea,” she said and moved her hand from your leg and grabbed your phone. 

She gave it to you and made a motion for you to unlock it. You did and gave it back to her. From where you were sat you weren’t able to see your screen, much less what she typed on it. 

After a few seconds she gave it back to you. 

It was Nico’s instagram profile. You hesitated before clicking on his most recent post. Your other friends that had been sitting on the floor climbed up to join you. 

“Follow him,” one of them said. You could feel your heart thumping in your chest. This was not the account you had used to document your wins and training back then, but it still had your first and last name in the username, but it was on private. 

Underneath your thumb the button changed colour. “Fuck,” you said.

The other three laughed at your exclamation. “Wait, do I text him?” you asked, turning to the others. 

They all looked back at you, and one of them asked, “do you want to?”

You did. You really fucking did, but you had no idea what to say. “But what do I say? Hey, sorry for being a dick to you when we were like seventeen, I was half in love with you and didn’t know how to tell you, so I just cut you out before anything could possibly hurt me.”

One of them leaned her head on your shoulder. “If you leave out the half in love part, it’s not too bad.”

“You should also ask if he wants to meet and talk in person,” the other said. 

You opened your notes app and the four of you composed a message to him. 

Your hands were shaking and your heart was beating too fast. This was it, this was your chance and you weren’t going to let go again without a fight. This time you would stay and he could make the choice: to stay or to leave. 

Then, you hit the small blue icon and sent it and let out a quiet scream. You wouldn’t be able to take it back, not anymore. 

You threw your phone away from you onto a small patch where the blanket you were sitting on was still visible. 

Over an hour passed and you still hadn’t heard back from him. Soon after you pased out, but a quiet acceptance had settled in your stomach. He forgot. Or maybe he didn’t see the message or maybe he didn't want to talk to you again, which you couldn’t blame him for. 

But when you woke up the next morning, you had a single notification from him. 

For a second you debated not clicking on it, but that would mean standing still. It would be different this time. You would be different this time. There was an unfamiliar, new kind of determination that flickered up your spine and it reminded you of the steady ice under your skates, of the final hug the two of you had shared. Harsh, unforgiving, certain. 

You clicked on it and there was no going back now.

Nico Hischier Hello, it’s been a while.  Of course I remember you, didn’t I tell you?  For sure, I'd love to meet up and talk. Does next weekend work for you? I have a home game which makes it easier for both of us. 

notes: So. How are we feeling? Thoughts? Part 2? Please talk to me about this one because this lives in my mind rent free.

#nico hischier #nico hischer x reader #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier x y/n #nico hischier imagine #nhl #nj devils #nhl imagine #nhl x y/n #nhl x you #nhl x reader #ame writes

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

Hey guys. I've never made a post like this before, but there's a new scam going around that I haven't heard anything about, and I don't really feel comfortable keeping quiet about it.

I know there's warnings going around about not donating to particularly suspicious charities, but PLEASE be careful of people popping into your inbox asking to promote their charity posts!!

I decided to give this stranger the benefit of the doubt at first, and went looking on their page for the post they had mentioned. Their blog seemed incredibly normal too! Banner, icon, normal header text. Even their blog title coincided with their request (the supposed cat's name is Bacon)

The post is pretty long (to help obscure the suspiciousness, I reckon), and with some pretty sad imagery of an actually ill cat to boot (which I won't show here), but they slipped up with their last sentence.

NEVER send a paypal payment as friends/family to ANYONE who you don't know!! I feel like that's not something I would have to tell you, but just to cover all my bases I'm going to say it anyways. Friends/family payments through paypal are NON-REFUNDABLE! Scammers will frequently request for you to send them money in this way so that there's no way you can argue a case or ask for it back!

I'll admit, though, even after this smoking gun, I was still nervous to even write this post. I second guess myself a lot, and was nervous that maybe I was just jumping to conclusions. But if that wasn't enough evidence, the fact that there were only a handful of assorted 'fandom' posts on the blog- all of them reblogged within a 5 minute window to each other- was what cemented for me that this is NOT a real person. They don't even have a browsable archive! THAT'S how few posts they have!

It really sickens me how low some people will stoop to try to abuse people's charity. Always stay alert! Even if I hadn't donated myself, if I hadn't seen the signs I may have used my pre-established trust to convince someone else to give away their money in my stead!

Keep on the lookout for red flags! In the same way spam bots are evolving to grow more discrete, I don't doubt scammers like these will be soon to follow!

#i don't even know HOW to tag this #and by saying 'charity' or something this would probably get blacklisted despite #please consider reblogging this ig... i haven't heard anything about this this is so scary #i don't like being patient zero stop exposing me to the horrors!!!! #important

[fascinatedscrawls]

Phic Phight Prompt: The Box Ghost, aka the most un-frightening pathetic nuisance ever, is actually incredibly powerful compared to the average ghost.

Word Count: 1425

For @phantomphangphucker

Summary: There are a lot of different kinds of power. Some are easy to see and others - others take a little more perspective to understand. Of course, realizing that the Box Ghost was both feared and respected within the Ghost Zone is still a bit baffling even after Danny gets to see it first hand.

"Wait, wait, wait." Danny held up a hand to stop Ember before reconsidering and putting it to his own forehead in an attempt to drive off the headache he could feel building there. "Can you repeat that?"

"What am I, a wind up doll?" Her look of disgust made way for an eye roll when Danny dragged his hand further down his face to glare at her over his fingertips. "The Box Ghost will have what we need."

Hand now over his mouth, Danny wondered if he needed to get his ears checked. When she clicked her tongue at him and went to keep moving, Danny quickly followed her gesturing wildly.

"The Box Ghost? Really? As in, the guy who comes to Amity just to grab cardboard boxes and crates? The one who won't stop introducing himself and screaming 'Beware!' - that guy?" Actually, a thought occurred to him and he narrowed his eyes trying to fly ahead of Ember to try and read the truth of it off her face. "Hang on, does he introduce himself because he's trying to use some other ghost's reputation? Is there another Box Ghost out there?"

Ember sped up shaking her head as she sped through the Zone.

"Of course not, anyone would be able to tell that the imposter was lying. Or, well," she winced a little, "no one would believe that guy when he lied. I mean, he's not the best actor. Not everyone's meant for the stage, obviously."

"Obviously." Danny repeated, voice and expression flat before he remembered that he was here to ask Ember for help. Pasting on a friendly smile when she sent him a warning look, he tried for a little more clarification hoping that she wouldn't change her mind. "But how did he become the ghost to see?"

"I'm the ghost everyone wants to see." She reminded him instantly, striking a pose like she was getting photographed before waving off his fumbled response to that. "I know what you meant. For this type of thing it's more that it just falls into his domain."

"Like, a kingdom?" The Box Ghost had a whole realm like Dorothea and Frostbite? Danny almost breathed a sigh of relief when Ember shook her head.

"No, more like a website."

Danny wasn't aware that he could stumble while flying, but he managed it anyway. "Excuse me?"

"No."

Ugh. Ember was sometimes all the parts of Jazz Danny couldn't stand - a big sister without any of the care that made Jazz one of Danny's favorite people. At his groan Ember came to an abrupt stop and reached for her guitar. Danny almost brought ecto to his hands before he realized she was holding it out instead of readying an attack.

"Look, everyone has what they're good at, right? Like I'm amazing at singing and playing my guitar so when I play I can do things through my performance."

"Right." Danny drew out the vowel a bit, following but not really sure where this was going.

"It also means that things pertaining to my domain of Rock Star Sensation are more likely to find their way to me even inside the Infinite Realms." Flicking her fingers, she rolled a guitar pick down her knuckles in a practiced move. "That's why my guitar is always in tune and I usually have all the things I need to play it. Strings, picks, if they fall into the realms there's a good chance I'll find them."

So ghosts frequently found things that related to their obsession. Danny wasn't sure how true that was - that things find their way to the ghosts that wanted them rather than most ghosts only paying attention to things they were personally obsessed with, but the Ghost Zone didn't exactly run on any logic he truly understood so he was going to roll with it for now.

"And the box ghost-"

"Finds boxes." Ember finished his sentence, swinging her guitar back over her shoulder and starting forward once more, more noticeably following the path of a few other ghosts Danny could see in the distance. "And other packages, though he doesn't like those quite so much."

"He finds boxes and keeps them no matter what's inside, got it." Which explained why she was leading him to the Box Ghost for those supplies Frostbite was looking for. "How often does he find more boxes?"

Just how likely was it that Danny would find the laundry list of things Frostbite was looking for?

"Oh," Ember didn't even knock before pushing a double wide set of swinging doors open so they could step inside what Danny now saw was their destination. "Almost constantly, I think."

Goggling at the ghostly equivalent of a big box warehouse complete with rows and rows of aisles that practically scrapped the almost cavernous ceiling, Danny didn't even care that Ember was absolutely snickering at his reaction. "Where do they even come from?"

"They're every package that gets lost in the mail, I think." Ember answered, grabbing his arm and pulling him further into the store. "And there are a lot of lost packages these days."

They passed huge piles of boxes, each stacked higher than the Fenton Works Ops Center, many of which baring familiar logos from various online retailers. Danny snorted before his eye caught on a ghost reaching through the cardboard to triumphantly pull something (hedge trimmers?) from a box only to very quickly place whatever was in his other hand into the box in its place. Looking around at other ghosts who were sifting through the madness or bargaining between themselves Danny noticed something.

"Does everyone bring their own stuff?"

"Money doesn't really mean much here, so like everywhere else in the Realms this place runs on trades." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a few CDs some of which Danny vaguely recognized as being popular a few years ago, all of which wouldn't have fit in her pocket if she weren't a ghost. "The Box Ghost doesn't care about what's in the boxes so long as something is inside the box."

Danny's next question was forgotten as the Box Ghost himself burst intangibly through the boxes on the next aisle over, hands raised with a loud, "I am the Box Ghost!"

After months of being warned by the same ghost with nothing resulting from it other than maybe a few hours of annoyance as he chased the Box Ghost around town before capturing him, Danny watched incredulous as the smaller ghost the owner of this 'store' was threatening cowered, literally tripping over themselves as they searched their pockets for something to put into the box they'd left empty a few minutes before.

Around them the other ghosts scattered as the Box Ghost yanked the offender up by their collar, eyes burning bright and an surprisingly impressive wave of energy rolling off him that even Danny could fee,l before a figurine (in mint condition) was held up in shaky hands as an offering.

There was a pause as the Box Ghost blinked away his rage to inspect it. Then he snatched it from their hands and put it ever so gently back into the temporarily empty box. Giving it a satisfied pat, he then threw out a practiced "Beware!" before vanishing back to wherever he came from.

Danny watched the ghost he dropped snatch up their prize and shoot out the double doors before giving a knowing Ember a wide eyed look.

"Never mess with a ghost over their obsession on their own turf, especially not a guy who gets all his power from the ecto people give off his his warehouse." She warned him.

"But - he's so-" Danny struggled to put it in words. "He never does anything like that in Amity?"

"Not his turf is it?" The pointed look met its mark even before she followed it with, "Besides, you've got his kryptonite."

Baffled, Danny pointed at himself. Ember helpfully pointed at him too. Following her finger, Danny unhooked the thermos from his belt.

"For a guy who is all about boxes and other things cubic, the only thing worse for him would be a sphere."

Aaand there was the Infinite Realm's 'logic' catching Danny off guard again.

"I guess it doesn't matter how powerful he is if I'm always fighting him with the perfect weapon."

"Yep, now get searching. I don't have all day and this place doesn't have any sort of organization."

With a groan, Danny snatched the CDs from her hand and got to work.

#phic phight 2024 #danny phantom #the box ghost #one shot #phantomphangphucker #I cannot be stopped there's another version of this prompt coming directly after lol #hope you like one or both of them!

[artfightdramaconfessions]

I tried to work it through my head for a moment and went through the rest of their page but I honest to fuck stopped trying after their 5th oc. (They apparently frequently throw ocs into archive once they’ve been attacked then put in another of that hasn’t been attacked, they have a full roster)

There’s a person on ArtFight who throws ocs onto their page but includes NONE of their OWN art in the references. They don’t have any fucking art of that oc, it’s all reference images made by other people. They have over 50 defenses and only attacked 6 times, and i know what I’m about to say next is rude but HELL.

Their art is atrocious, and normally I’d be like “omg bud, look at you go! You fucking got this! Put yourself out there! Improve! Fuck what anyone else thinks, you’re learning!” But they’re flytrapping people. They throw a shit ton of ocs onto their characters list, make it misleading by having a shit ton of Amazing art with no references of their own art style and then BAM.

After so many fucking defenses they reveal their art as SHIT. And it’s like. Ugh. Ugh. I fucking hate when people do that. Like what the fuck? I followed you because of this one singular oc art and then it turns out that oc art isn’t even made by you?

(I’m exaggerating, kind of, they credit the images made by other artists but what the flying fuck, I don’t think people normally even look at that unless it’s Clear that there are multiple different art styles on the same oc and they’re like <sus, oh wait! That explains it> so like what the fuck.)

I understand having reference images other people drew in your oc list alongside your own drawn reference images, it’s a good way to find other artists and sharing the love but this person? Fuck no.

I don’t know, I hate it. It just feels scummy, what they did.

Their bio says that they’re not even gonna try to revenge the 50+ attacks because “if you don’t see your name on this list and you’ve attacked me, it’s probably because I did not see a character on your list that I feel I have enough skill to draw. Sorry :(“ fuck off. The revenge list is empty fuck off.

what the fuck is this bullshit? What is this bullshit???

Anyway I’m fucking irritated and angry, I’m gonna block them and move on. Gods what the fuck.

.

#artfight2023 #artfight #art fight #submission

[niennandil-me-writes]

why you should(n't) rob a jewelry store in the middle of the day

[birthday present for the amazing @krissinonstop, who this canon belongs to. Big SPOILERS for Benjamin's Wagon 1-6]

Redd didn’t know what he had expected when he was called to the most prestigious jewelry store of Benjamin’s Wagon. His boyfriend grinning at him from behind the store window, held in place by the hulking store detective on his right, with Mrs. Peters, the owner of the store standing at his left with an expression on her face that could curdle milk, had been in his top five guesses – and only failed to rank higher because he hadn’t expected him to steal from a store Yasmin frequented.

He closed his eyes for a moment, mentally preparing for the scene that waited for him, before sighing and opening the door. A bell chimed cheerily as the door was pressed open, building a stark contrast to the shrill voice of Mrs. Peters assaulting him before he had even stepped inside.

“Finally! I can’t believe how long it takes to get a so-called professional on this crime scene! What does one have to do in this town to have justice be served? Imagine if this – subject – had drawn a weapon on me or my customers, or my employees while we were waiting for you to show up!”

Redd bit back a snide remark about having to stop a murder on the other side of town – a lie. Bit back another remark about the store detective looking perfectly capable of beating up anyone who’d try to threaten her, seemed in fact like he spent his time beating up people for no reason at all – an observation. Bit back yet another remark about the biggest threat to her employees’ physical health, mental health, and financial stability being Mrs. Peters herself – an undisputed fact.

He said: “What is the matter here?”

“Good that you’re here, sheriff,” Christopher said. “This guy has been following me around ever since I entered this shop, and now him and his accomplice – “ he tilted his head at Mrs. Peters, “ – won’t let me go.”

Mrs. Peters ignored him. “He tried to steal from us!”

Redd looked at Christopher, who didn’t even try to look innocent. “Do you have proof of that?”

“Bob caught him red-handed!” said Mrs. Peters, who seemed to talk exclusively in exclamations.

“That’s racist,” Christopher said. “And I’m not even indigenous.”

“We found this necklace on him,” Mrs. Peters said, holding up a silver band with an amethyst pendant.

Redd looked at Christopher again, who shrugged. “Must have fallen in my pocket.”

“Arrest this man at once! He should be in jail! Or prison! For 10 – no, 20 years! He should not be near polite society.”

“I’ll take care of this, Mrs. Peters,” Redd tried to calm her down. He took Christopher by the shoulder and led him to the door.

“Why are you not arresting him?” yelled Mrs. Peters. “He stole from us!”

“And you got back your property,” Redd said. “I’ll just have to take his information and clear some things up before bringing him to the Sheriff’s Department.”

Redd led Christopher outside and into a narrow alleyway between the shop and a burger joint before he let go of him.

“Do your parents know you’re here, young man?”

“They’re too busy pretending I don’t exist,” Christopher said, unbothered. “Aren’t you gonna handcuff me, sheriff?” He winked.

“I didn’t see it as necessary.”

“Too bad. I like the handcuffs.”

Redd smirked. “That would have made Peters shut up. But it would also have made her way too happy.”

“You got a point there.” Christopher leaned back, his shoulders and left foot pressing against the brick wall behind him.

Redd fully turned now, to face him. He crossed his arms. “A necklace? Really?”

“Dee’s birthday is coming up,” Christopher smiled.

“I’m sure she’d be happier to get something you didn’t steal.”

“Incidentally, my birthday is coming up as well,” Christopher said. “And I thought maybe dear Mrs. Peters might gift me the price of the present for Dee.”

Redd couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Really, I’m surprised you got caught. You’re better than this.”

“Maybe I wanted to get caught.”

“Do you like the handcuffs that much?”

“It’s more about the person who puts the handcuffs on you.” Christopher pushed himself off the wall and shot Redd a smirk that begged to be kissed off his lips.

Redd sighed. “You know we can do that without you committing petty crimes.”

“Petty? That thing cost over two hundred dollars,” Christopher exclaimed. “Really, it’s Peters who is robbing people. Besides,” and he took another step closer, “since you’re always busy with work, I thought I’d become your work for the day.”

Redd sighed again but couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Fine, but that means I still need to do my job. Did you steal anything else?”

Christopher shrugged. “You could search me to find out,” he suggested.

“Christopher…”

“Come on, humor me.”

In the end, Redd let himself be swayed – not that he needed much convincing. He started patting him down.

“Is that a knife?”

“No, I’m just happy to see you. Oh, wait, that is actually my spring-knife. Uh, be careful with that.”

Redd confiscated the weapon for now, then resumed his task. He stopped at a bump in Christopher’s jacket pocket. He slipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out the small object.

“I’m assuming this isn’t yours,” he said, turning the small plastic box in his hands. An overexaggerated print on the dark velvet casing marked it as the property of Mrs. Peters’ store.

“She didn’t seem to be missing it,” Christopher said.

“What is it?”

“One way to find out.”

Redd sighed, opening the delicate box with a twist of his fingers. It sprung open to reveal a single small object made of unadorned silver, encased between two velvet cushions. Redd gaped at the ring, which sat unassuming in the box he had found on his boyfriend.

When he finally looked up from it, he found Christopher no longer standing but instead kneeling in front of him. His smirk had gained the subtle edge of satisfaction over an accomplished heist, but there was a softness around his eyes.

There were a lot of thoughts in Redd’s head, the words “really, like this?” somewhere on top. But, really, there was only one response:

“Yes.”

“I haven’t even asked you yet,” Christopher said. He was full-on grinning now.

“Yes.”

“Do you think the ring is right for Farley – “

Redd ignored him and grabbed him by the arms to pull him up and kiss him. Christopher didn’t resist his arrest as he was pulled into a strong hug. He answered the kisses just as hungrily.

“Yes,” said Redd again between kisses.

When he finally pulled away, he said: “I’m making us a nice dinner tonight.”

Despite his general mischievous attitude, Christopher seemed relieved by the answer he had received. Then he was right back to his smirk: “So, does that mean I can keep the earrings I stole?”

“What?”

“You won’t believe this, but Charlotte also has a birthday.”

#my writing #fanfic #benjamin's wagon #redd #fluff

[golbrocklovely]

idk if this is gonna be a rant or a vent or whatever, but it's just something i felt like talking about.

something i find interesting about me is that if you knew me in person, irl, you would think i was a ghost in a way. i almost never post anywhere on any of my actual social medias. i think i'm technically the most active on twitter, but like only three-ish ppl follow me that are still active on there that know me.

yesterday i took some pics of myself, something i never really do anymore. and i posted them today on my insta. i only ever post to insta when it's my birthday, so some of the last couple posts have just been selfies of me getting older lol

and the pics i posted today…. no one has liked them. and i don't know why, but something about that made me kinda sad.

i'm not sure why, tho. anyone that follows me on my personal insta isn't really anyone that knows me anymore. tbh there was a time i was planning on deleting my insta. something about being a complete ghost, someone no one knows where to check up on, was kinda fun. the idea of two ppl saying "hey do you remember angelica? i wonder what she's up to" and them not being able to find me anywhere made me kinda happy.

but i think seeing no one, not even one person, like my pics hurts in a weird way. it makes me jump to the darkest conclusions i've had all along - that no one actually really cares about me. that everyone leaves for a reason and that reason is me not being enough. that even when i felt cute and wanted to post about it, no one agreed.

but then i have to step back and be like…. dear lord, angelica, you take shit WAY too seriously.

like in the grand scheme of everything, who the FUCK cares how many likes you get on a pic of yourself? who cares if you update frequently or update once a year? none of this type of shit matters.

i had archived the post an hour ago, only to unarchive it bc the reason why i posted the pics was bc i thought i looked cute. it's not more complicated than that. and if no one likes it, it's not the end of the world.

idk. i think a lot of this sadness i feel also stems from not having friends irl anymore. i know i talk to a lot of you on here, and that's great. honestly it's the only way i socialize anymore that isn't from physically working in retail (where i talk to ppl everyday) or from just living with my family still. but i miss having a social life, of having ppl to talk to that know me. and i'm in a weird place where i have no idea how to make new friends. especially those my own age lol

(also let's be serious for a moment insta is dying bc the only ppl that post on it anymore are those that make money from it)

#personal #text #i'm trying to remind myself that it's okay to get upset about shit like this but don't let it ruin your day

[jakeperalta]

crystal reed posting about this teen wolf revival movie........ maybe I am about to go back to my teenage obsession after all

#that show DEFINED the ages of 14 to 16 for me #anyone who followed me then or looks at my archive or even just my frequently used tags will know the OBSESSION #but i stopped watching after s5 because i just felt like my spark of passion for it died with allison #but crystal posting about it implying she may be involved in some way..... if i can get a crumb more allison content i will be eating it up #talking #tw

[ao3-sucks]

An Archive of Someone’s Own: my experiences being groomed in fandom circles on AO3

TW: Childhood sexual abuse, grooming, mentions of incest and rape.

I used to be a big writer of fanfiction. It was the logical choice for me. I loved to write and create bold and immersive worlds, and I craved an audience who would enjoy my work as much as I did. Since my writing wasn’t actually good, I needed a community of other amateurs who wouldn’t mind that, and by tweaking my characters and settings into ones from canonical media, I got the audience I so craved.

I started writing fanfiction online when I was 14, posting initially on FanFiction.net and then moving to AO3 a few months later. As I got back into writing original fiction towards the end of high school, I lost interest in this community, and it’s been a long time since I posted anything much on AO3.

I’ve always struggled with the fact I display a lot of symptoms of CSA, and for the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why. Throughout my teen years, I refused to get changed or bathe when anyone was even vaguely nearby, constantly paranoid about being spied on; I developed a severe touch phobia, and would have frequent panic attacks from something as small as brushing arms with a passerby; I resolutely identified as asexual and refused to get into anything resembling a relationship with others because the very concept disgusted and repulsed me.

Weird, considering I had grown up pretty normal and all of these symptoms had started around my early teens. It was only when I told my friends about my friendship with a 30 year old I had met online that the pieces started falling into place for me.

Child grooming is usually discussed in the context of one adult going out of their way to befriend a child with the goal of lowering their resistance to sexual abuse, through normalisation and friendliness. I’d like to talk about how that worked on the fanfiction website AO3. Since it’s an open website and most communication takes place between anonymous users or accounts in the comments section of a work, there is very little delineation between spaces for adults to discuss whatever dark topics they like and spaces for kids to do the same.

This frequently leads to pretty inappropriate conversations between people of widely varying ages and life experiences, which is how I ended up talking sex as a fourteen year old with people ranging from a couple of years older than me, who were generally okay, to more than twice my age. The 30 year old in question listed on her profile how many pedophilic ships she loved, and she knew my age but pushed me to keep discussing sexual topics with her. Sounds like a red flag, yeah? Well. I was 14, and very stupid.

This 30 year old woman, who I will call Aku (because it’s similar to her screen name and because it’s funny to name her after the bad guy from Samurai Jack) would start conversations with me whenever I posted anything to AO3 and would refuse to take no for an answer when I tried to back out of conversations with her, and since these conversations were public and occurring within comments, I didn’t want to be rude to her since this was taking place on content I was trying to promote.

I told her my age multiple times and she would either pretend she forgot from last time (saying her memory is super bad) or continue as though it was just trivia about me and not a sign she shouldn’t have been pushing me. My primary objection to what she would say to me (since most of it was just her being annoying) was her insistence on sexualising everything I wrote, and her determination to push me into writing pornographic content, which I eventually gave in to.

Yes, she was a terrible person. She emailed me using her personal email address, so I know her full name and place of residence, because she’s an idiot. These emails also contain sexually explicit materials. Nothing much ever happened between us except for these very creepy interactions and the fact we remained online friends for a few years. But here’s the thing: she wasn’t the only person pushing me into creating sexual content. Lots of people would comment on my writing demanding that I show explicit sexual content when I really didn’t want to.

After a while it felt like I couldn’t write a longer, romantic fanfiction without including explicit sexual content. Like my work wasn’t valid without it. Other, more popular writers were usually sexual in their content, and I wanted to be like them and bring in the views, right? So, when I look at my back catalog of works, I can see how my content moved from completely non-sexual to featuring sexual content over time, and the views usually came with. In this way, I was in an environment that was encouraging me on many levels to sexualise my own work, which impacted the way I thought about my creative process.

Here’s another example I remember. When I was a young sprout, I remember reading down someone’s list of fanfiction recommendations and seeing a work called Hug Therapy, which I promptly read. While the work is marked as explicit and containing the Loki/Thor pairing, the use of relationship and rating tags on AO3 is so poorly regulated that it didn’t really mean anything to me to see either of those. People tag hardcore material as non-explicit and tag friendships as relationships, because there’s no motivation to tag properly. Plus, someone I followed here on Tumblr had recommended it to me.

Now, you wouldn’t know from the listing, but while this piece starts out as comedy, it turns out in the end to include rape, incest, and BDSM in very explicit terms. The fact it was tagged as being explicit didn’t slow me down, because the liberal use of these tags could mean that an explicit tag was just there because sexual content was implied or mentioned, which I thought would be the case based on the rest of the listing. Out of curiosity, I recently tried to report this work to the moderators for containing no warnings about incest or rape, and I got this in response:

“Selecting “Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings” satisfies a creator’s obligation under the warnings policy. Users who wish to avoid specific elements entirely should not access fanworks marked with “Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings”. Our Terms of Service note: “You understand that using the Archive may expose you to material that is offensive, triggering, erroneous, sexually explicit, indecent, blasphemous, objectionable, grammatically incorrect, or badly spelled. ….. This decision is in accordance with our policy of maximum inclusiveness; we have therefore closed this case and will not be investigating further.”

Which, yeah, I guess. The frustration comes from how ‘Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings’ is an extremely commonly used tag, and most things that it’s used on are totally harmless.

This fanfiction, which I was recommended by a friend, is hugely popular, in the top 60 most read fanfictions in the entire fandom. You wanna hear the kicker? The author, Astolat, is one of the founders of AO3. They’re not just some random author who isn’t following the rules. They’re a creator of the whole website, and they made the rules. This is pretty telling about how seriously the website actually takes protecting their users.

My final example I want to give is one of fetish content. People in fetish communities generally (not always) say that fetishes are probably something one should work up to after the onset of sexual activity, especially potentially harmful stuff like BDSM. In the circles I was running in, if you weren’t sporting a fetish or two (no matter your age) you were a boring bitch.

Maybe this isn’t true of everywhere in the fanfiction community, but I used to feel that bizarre pressure until I got out. Bear in mind that my main time in this community was from ages 14 to 17. I never made my age a secret, either. I told people outright I was that age, I was in high school, I was playing hockey and studying The Great Gatsby when I wasn’t online.

Since I was in the Avengers fandom and I liked Loki and the Asgardians, I was frequently exposed to incestuous content between Loki and Thor, and a lot of it came out of nowhere or was poorly tagged. This was considered the norm, and while I at first felt completely horrified and repulsed, within a year or two I no longer gave a shit. It’s only in the last few years as I’ve begun to unpack everything that I’ve started to get that strong revulsion reaction to incestuous content.

In the circles I was in, it was relentlessly normal. Normal to the point that people who disliked it were usually shouted down. Even to this day, debate rages on in fandom spaces about whether or not content like this normalises this kind of abuse. In my own personal experience, which I don’t usually like to talk about, it absolutely does.

In real life, this normalisation started to have serious consequences for my mental health and interpersonal relationships. In fanfiction, any occasion when you are alone with someone could become sexual, any familial relationship is possibly sexual, and it doesn’t matter if you like it or not. I became incredibly anxious around male family members for fear of being sexually assaulted, and my OCD, which I had been developing since I was a child, turned from thoughts of physical violence to thoughts of graphically sexually assaulted by anyone and everyone around me.

My fear of being touched got to the point where I would have panic attacks if anyone came anywhere close to touching me. I quit sports, fucked up my romantic relationships, and didn’t hug anyone, not even members of my family, for years. All the while, I had bought my first laptop and was consuming more fanfiction than ever before. I struggled with my sexuality growing up, as I am bisexual, and while fanfiction provided LGBT content to help me, the content was frequently so disturbing that I viewed any expression of sexuality as something evil and predatory.

The community on AO3, whether you like it or not, is often sexual, and provides no barriers between the casual user looking for content and extremely intense fetish material. It’s sometimes called the Pornhub of fanfiction, but considering the wide range of people who use it, it’s more like if you opened Youtube and saw niche hardcore fetish videos just on the front page, recommended and trending.

Sure, you have to click a little button to confirm you’re 18 before you can actually read a story, but the tags and descriptions of readily available works can be extremely explicit. Fanfiction also brings you into close contact with fellow readers and the author, and encourages you to become a content creator, which in some ways makes it more dangerous.

I was affected much more strongly by what I saw than most people would be, because I was already treading shaky ground. But I’m also not the only person out there who has been hurt in this way. Most of my friends who grew up in fandom can report the impact that fanfiction culture had on them. One of my friends from high school knew a panoply of porn terms at age 14 or so due to reading fanfiction, and another of my other friends at high school almost exclusively read rape porn because it was her favourite. I didn’t have friends who watched porn; I had friends who read fanfiction. These are just as troubling to me as any other accounts of young people consuming visual porn from a very early age.

It’s frequently cited that fanfiction gives minority groups the opportunity for creative outlet. It was a great place for me to cut my teeth as a content creator, and a source of acceptance and kindness when times were tough. Fanfiction communities have historically been the domain of women and minorities, and create a space for these people to tell their own stories.

It’s largely because of this that fanfiction communities fear censorship and strict moderation, as they have been attacked in the past on homophobic or misogynistic grounds, resulting in mass deletions of works or the shutdown of websites. But there must be some middle ground between total censorship and the kind of free rein that puts vulnerable people in danger, and I strongly encourage the board of AO3 to seek this middle ground out.

But it’s the community itself that needs to shape up; AO3 is, after all, a community-led website built by fans for fans, so the fact that this website has such issues is a reflection of the issues that run deeply within the people who created it. Aku didn’t talk to me with the intention of doing me harm, or so I believe at this time, and she didn’t pursue me as a lone wolf or in isolation.

She was simply a particularly brazen member of a community that was used to having inappropriate conversations with young people and sexualising everything they did. Even people my own age were jokingly pushing me into discussing and consuming extremely sexual content. It was just normal. That’s what I want to say here. Inside the world of fandom on AO3, the grooming of children with sexual content is normal. And that’s scary.

- Mod Daft

#mod daft post #ao3 discourse #fandom wank #fanfiction discourse #fanfiction wank #csa// #rape// #grooming// #incest//

[shimmersing]

Best Intentions *COMPLETE* Masterpost | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Bonus! Soundtrack @ Spotify

“Ah, Lieutenant!” Erithon swallowed hard against the wave of apprehension that was gathering in his throat as Duke Organa flagged him down. “A most splendid representative of our allies in the Republic. Come!”

He managed not to squirm like a cadet when the Duke clapped him on the shoulder, turning him toward the ballroom’s grand stairway. It wasn’t that he didn’t like parties. This was just a few steps away from the usual military shindig: salute a few times, don’t spill anything on the dress uniform. Nobility wasn’t that far removed from the brass, right? Same kind of handshake deals that meant something a little different to each party, and something else altogether for the people under them. He shrugged inside the stiff sleeves of his jacket, not exactly uncomfortable, just… unfamiliar. It fit fine. But it didn’t feel quite right. Like this whole scene.

“Ah, excellent,” Organa drawled, slowing as a commotion drew everyone’s attention. Flashes sparkled as various holocams swarmed like killiks around the newest arrival. The duke glanced sidelong at Erithon while the soldier craned his neck to get a better view, squinting past the glare.

He knew – obviously; he wasn’t a complete nerf herder – that it would be his Jedi, the same way he knew when a blaster was about to overheat. He just knew. Was that how the Force worked? He didn’t think so, and a question like that seemed so utterly childish he almost laughed aloud. Would she, if he asked? Nah, she wouldn’t. She’d smile and offer him a gentle analogy like that morning, when he’d gathered enough nerve to ask her how he came to be sitting next to her on the transport and not in a body bag.

“Force healing is…” Aitahea had replied, their shoulders nudging companionably as the transport rumbled back toward the palace, “…hard to explain.” Her cheeks had flushed a little, the darting glance from below her lowered lashes full of shy apology. “But I’ll try.” She’d explained her method, which to him didn’t sound all that different from any other medical scanner he’d been in, only a lot more pleasant if his experience was any example.

“My sister on Brentaal is a nurse. Thought it was a little funny when we were younger. We always had medical droids to take care of everything, right?” The Jedi had bobbed her head, eager to hear his next thought. “But after I woke up in a kolto tank the first time alone, I mean, no personnel…” He’d flailed for some explanation of the isolation he’d felt, but it had been hard to recall while her shoulder had been jostling against his. He’d shrugged, grinned, and continued, “Now I think I prefer seeing someone friendly on waking.”

She’d gazed at him with a solemn wonder that had quickened his breath, had him doing everything he could to memorize the ever-so-slight parting of her lips before they curled into a smile.

Just like they did now.

Erithon was so preoccupied with following her gaze that the sudden smile blooming in his direction took his breath away. Again. Aitahea was resplendent. Gossamer enshrouded, bound hair freed from utilitarian plaits and tumbling over her bare shoulders – he throttled back a ridiculous urge to elbow Duke Organa and point out that she had shoulders, and weren’t they nice, too?

Organa smoothed his hands over his lapels, looking pleased with himself, while Erithon struggled to recall his higher vocabulary. “I expect the press will want a holo of our heroes.”

“A holo of-” he began, but she floated over to them right then, luminous and exquisite. It became quite clear who the press would want a holo of. The Jedi offered the duke a generous curtesy, and Erithon found his looming panic - particularly at the words “press” and “holo” - replaced by fascination with the way her earrings brushed against her jawline. Duke Organa caught her hands as she rose and enfolded her in a paternal embrace.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful,” Erithon heard Aitahea whisper to the duke.

“Superb timing, my dear.” The duke’s eyes crinkled merrily around an affectionate smile. He turned to nod at Erithon, adroitly pressing one of Aitahea’s hands into his, then stepped expertly into the background with a final, grand pronouncement: “Our Paladins!”

A cascade of flashes set Erithon’s vision shimmering, but training swiftly rose to meet unfamiliarity, and he managed to remain stoic even as his heart clanged wildly against his ribs. Clever fellow, that Organa, he mused, and with a smirk as bold as he could muster, he deftly hooked his arm under the Jedi’s hand and guided her away from the press. The Duke’s laughter echoed through the hall behind them, but Erithon couldn’t hear it and wouldn’t have cared anyway; he was busy memorizing the sound of her restrained giggle at his shoulder.

“That was a bold move, diplomatically speaking, Lieutenant,” she said playfully, drawing them to a stop to hold him at arm’s length. Flashes sparkled again, unnoticed by either. Her scrutiny didn’t bother him, and it did give him an opportunity to reciprocate.

“You’re… you look amazing,” he breathed, unable to push his awe aside. She could have been a daughter of any of the noble houses on Alderaan, only she couldn’t because none of them were as radiant, as otherworldly. She couldn’t, because even without her lightsaber (that he could tell, anyway), she remained a veritable force of nature. Unexplainable and irreplaceable, flushed cheeks and wide eyes and little white flowers caught up in her hair. Because when he’d said something as trite as ‘you look amazing’ her eyes lit up like she’d never heard anyone say it before this.

“Pardon me, Master Jedi? Lieutenant?” A fidgeting Haley Organa interrupted as politely as possible, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We’re ready for you.”

Erithon blinked, overwhelmed with the sudden lurching feeling that he hadn’t studied for a test. Hadn’t he just deftly navigated them out of this nonsense? “For…us?”

Before the young page’s nervousness could escalate to panic, Aitahea intervened: “An introduction. The formal presentation. It’s mostly for the holonet, so they can put a name with your holo, and hopefully spell it correctly.” Her brows lowered, and he caught a glimpse of solemn concern behind her light tone. “It shouldn’t be unlike one of your military events.”

He inclined his head, discomfort ebbing away. He didn’t think it was a Jedi thing, not this time. “Smile, but not too much.”

“Just so,” she replied softly, reaching up to brush away some unseen particle from his collar. He straightened, willing his face back into a mask of quiet confidence. Her own features settled into practiced serenity, but her eyes, fixed on his, danced.

Just another kind of battlefield.

[BREAK HERE]

“Republic Lieutenant Erithon Zale of Havoc Squad and Master Aitahea Daviin of the Jedi Order.”

The cluster of press at the foot of the grand stair disappeared momentarily behind the coruscation of flashes. Beyond them Aitahea briefly glimpsed, through the sea of elaborate costume and outlandish headwear, the dancers at the center of the hall. Over the buzz of voices, she could hear the notes of a familiar waltz. Haley Organa gave her a relieved smile as he slipped away to his next charges, leaving the Jedi and the soldier to descend the gauntlet together. Beneath her hand, Erithon’s arm was reassuringly steady.

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes only once they reached the last stair and the press drew close again. Erithon looked down, one brow raised in a wordless plea: What now? Aitahea laughed and nudged him toward a knot of familiar faces.

“Guess we made an entrance,” he admitted, sparing a last glance toward the lingering press, and turned toward Elara Dorne and Arik Jorgan, both in military dress like their commander, and a beaming Brant Sonn. “Hey, we know them.”

They exchanged greetings; the more formal commentary was punctuated with the chatter of battlefield allies good-naturedly enjoying each other’s company. Aitahea listened to the companions, struggling to keep her eyes on the others and not so frequently on Erithon. Grasping rather tenaciously to his arm was helping but had to be forsaken well too soon for her preference when Tharan and Holliday approached, asking that the Jedi make introductions for them, it wouldn’t take but a moment.

“Of course,” Aitahea agreed, all politeness, turning back to Erithon to excuse herself. He winked at her and caught her free hand in a quick squeeze when she began to pull away. Aitahea found herself suddenly and agreeably conscious that neither of their finery required gloves. His hands were warm.

“Hurry back,” he said, eyes crinkling with mirth, and Aitahea nearly forgot to let go before being ushered away by a harassed-looking Tharan.

‘Hurry’ became three different conversations with seven different nobles from at least two houses and a science corporation headquartered on Organa lands. At last, Aitahea was finally able to withdraw from the conversation, wandering over to where dancers traded partners and minced steps rather than words or plans. It was one of her favorite court dances, learned and practiced enough in her youth that even now she felt muscles tensing for steps she hadn’t taken in years. Orderly and precise, patterns were traced and rewritten, dancers finding each other again, over and over.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Aitahea was so entranced that she startled when Erithon spoke at her shoulder and laughed a little breathlessly. “Forgive me, I was so preoccupied with the dancers.” He offered her his arm and another charming grin, and she accepted, grateful that only she knew how an adolescent glee had settled so comfortably under her superficial calm. “I haven’t heard this since I was a girl – an initiate, in the enclave, that is.” She winced at her rambling explanation.

“Pretty.” He hadn’t seemed to notice her discomfort, occupied with carefully watching as the dancers divided, exchanged partners for a cursory bow, then returned to join hands. “Do you know the dance, too?”

She nodded. Well, if you’re going to be preposterously transparent may as well carry on, she thought vehemently, but her voice and expression remained blithe. “It’s traditional on Alderaan. Are you familiar with it?”

He grimaced at the dancers, chagrin drawing his brows low. “Um, no. But,” he offered cautiously, “I’m reasonably good at following orders. And you’ve kept me from embarrassing myself so far.”

“I’ve never… I haven’t in years, I don’t know if I can recall all…” Aitahea focused determinedly on his eyes while she tried to hold fast the wild fluttering in her chest, something delicate and precious that had lingered, and after a moment she found she liked it there simply fine. She inhaled slowly, then asked, “You’re certain?”

“I trust you.”

~

Erithon had made his mind up to ask if she wanted to dance before he’d even spotted her. He might not have any empathic sensibilities, but he’d watched her seek out the dancers even while they were walking down the grand stairs. Even he could tell she’d wanted to be out there, and if he could just manage to stay on his feet long enough to give her the chance, he’d handle any ribbing from his crew later. She deserved it.

“Listen,” she murmured over her shoulder as they waited, poised at the edge of the dance floor. “Can you hear the rhythm? One, two, three?”

“Mmhmm.” He nodded, swallowing hard when she stepped back against him. “Got it.” He shifted, hovering at her side, and hoping his heart wasn’t thumping in her ear like it felt like it had to be. “I think.”

Humming her amusement, she turned herself expertly into his arms and placed her left hand in his while she raised their right hands to her shoulder, fingers entwined. “Just start walking in time with the music.” She tapped a finger into his left palm. “Begin with your left.”

He took a breath and nodded. The dance was stately but leisurely, giving Erithon plenty of time to hear the next step whispered over Aitahea’s shoulder. She made it effortless, her body easy to follow, featherlight touches guiding his motions.

Good thing that was all he had time to focus on.

After a few minutes of mostly successful instruction, Aitahea uttered a warning about the impending partner change. Erithon swallowed hard, nodded, and next thing he knew, he was tripping over the shoes of an unfortunate noblewoman with what looked like an entire miniature thranta nest perched precariously on a tower of powdered curls. Thankfully, the exchange ended quickly and Erithon was relieved to have Aitahea guiding him once again.

“I didn’t think anyone in the whole Core was still powdering their hair,” the Jedi bubbled unexpectedly into his ear. He laughed a little too loud and swept her gratefully – though perhaps a little too enthusiastically – back into the progression. He liked this part best, he’d quickly discovered. The leader – his role apparent, though he might have disagreed technically – picked up their partner for a little lift and turn. Aitahea had warned him verbally the first time, but the second time he’d wrapped his hands around her waist he’d been too busy looking into her eyes and had missed the lift.

Erithon was determined. This round he got everything perfect: an effortless lift gave him a few moments to enjoy when her eyes widened and smile bloomed. If he put her down a second or two late, she didn’t seem to mind.

The song wasn’t quite through when Aitahea’s steps slowed, drifting out of the pattern. Erithon tensed, an arm already around her waist, and opened his mouth to ask if she was all right when she stumbled. He caught her easily; she was breathing much harder than one should be for a Jedi in fighting form – and the shadows beneath her eyes seemed suddenly more pronounced.

Alarm buzzed through him. “Are you okay?” She still had her feet under her, so he kept hold of one of her hands and curled the other arm securely around her waist. Just in case.

“Yes!” she exhaled quickly, leaning into him, and added a breathy laugh. “Perhaps we should get some air?”

“Here, come on.” Guiding her past guards in Organa livery, the terrace appeared mercifully empty while the festivities continued inside. Erithon led Aitahea to one of the benches by an elbow, easing her down first before sitting beside her, keenly aware of his now-empty arms. “Better?”

“Much, thank you,” she replied, swiping at her hairline with the back of one hand before she lifted her face to smile at him. “That was lovely. I’m so sorry it had to end that way, and so soon.”

“Me too.” He smiled, unexpectedly pleased with her response. “You learned that here, as a kid?”

She shifted, easing back against the stone. “Yes.” She glanced sidelong at him, a droll smile playing across her lips. “No doubt the Duke has already regaled with you with mortifying stories from my youth.”

“He didn’t get to that,” Erithon said with a roguish wink. “Not that I’d believe a word of it, of course.” Erithon frowned back at her, worry wrinkling his brow. “You look tired.”

She sighed noncommittally and closed her eyes, leaning back against the cool stone behind them. Underneath the surface flush, she was still pale, almost sallow. When she opened her eyes again, the glitter in them was past the dazzle of a party and looking almost feverish.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Erithon shifted uneasily as the silence stretched out, trying not to guess at her silence and just leave her some space to breathe.

“I am… carrying a burden.” She paused, twisting her fingers while she seemed to search for words. “I’m shielding several masters who were infected with a Force plague, standing between them and madness, perhaps worse. Even my own master…” She trailed off, staring into her hands, dropping them to rest open in her lap.

“Anything I can do?” He meant anything. He’d face down more Sith, however many it took to disengage her from this burden and give her some peace. Anything.

Aitahea looked at him with eyes suddenly glittering with tears; her expression nearly stopped his heart. Her voice was a whisper, her eyes dancing again. “Erithon…” Her focus shifted, gaze flickering past him just as Erithon himself caught the sound of approaching footfalls. He ground his teeth to keep from muttering the curse he caught grumbling in his throat, instead giving Aitahea a bemused grimace as he rose and offered her a hand.

The Jedi was a portrait of ethereal serenity again, eyes that only moments before had shone with desperate anguish had shuttered, hiding the woman who’d whispered his name like a plea, leaving only the Jedi, glorious as she was, incandescent but incomplete.

“Ah, Master Jedi, I’ve been hoping to track you down all evening. I’m Hallam Organa, head of House Organa’s diplomatic corps.” The broad fellow made a brief bow, then indicated his companion. “This is my younger, more handsome brother, Lew.”

Lew Organa gave his brother an indulgent look. “Please, Hallam. You do yourself an injustice.” His lips twitched. “Your age gives you a stately difference.”

“My lords, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” she replied, eyes crinkling with amusement, then turned to Erithon. “Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Erithon Zale of the Republic, commander of Havoc Squad.”

“Ah, the liberator of the Spears! What an opportunity, having our newest Paladins side by side, such fine company!” Hallam exclaimed, offering Erithon a deep bow that Lew also made. Erithon glanced at Aitahea, uncertain how to respond, and she inclined her head, giving him an encouraging smile. He copied the motion, appreciative but still a bit mystified by all the pomp and circumstance.

Rising, Hallam returned his attention pointedly to Aitahea. “Master Jedi, I’ve been told you’re seeking Master Sidonie Garen.”

She hovered close to Erithon’s side, her hand curled around his arm. “It’s urgent that I speak with Master Sidonie as soon as possible.”

“You just missed her, I’m afraid. She’s already left for the peace summit,” Hallam explained. “A peace summit on Alderaan! Imagine that!” He slapped his thigh, shaking his head incredulously at Lew, who nodded thoughtfully in response.

Erithon watched Aitahea’s lips thin almost imperceptibly, but the next moment she was tilting her head, tranquil and erudite. “Indeed. Can you put me in contact with her?” Erithon could feel her tensing, fingers tightening on his sleeve. Master Sidonie must be one of the infected Jedi masters she’d mentioned a few moments ago.

“I can call her, certainly.” Hallam flicked another glance at Erithon, considering. “The location of the summit is a secret for obvious reasons, but I’m sure she’d welcome your assistance. Meet us first thing tomorrow morning, diplomacy wing?”

He felt her shudder, but she nodded affirmation. “Thank you, my lord, the Council will be eager to hear any updates.”

~

Their shoulders brushed again and again as they walked, sending her heart skipping every time. He hadn’t let her go further than arm’s reach since she’d stumbled out of the dance progression, nor as they wandered back to their suites after finishing the stilted conversation with Hallam and Lew Organa.

She slowed, eyes flickering to the nearby door of his suite, then back across the hall to her own door before she turned to face him. “We’re here.”

“Right.” He caught up the hand she’d left lingering on his sleeve and offered one of those extraordinary lopsided smiles. “I’m glad we found each other again.”

She returned the expression with delight. “As am I. Thank you for…” She began the elaborate thank-you she’d begun contriving as they’d walked back to the guest wing, but when he reached up with his free hand, twining one of her loose curls around a finger, every word fled her all at once. The silence between her heartbeats was impossibly sustained, well more than enough time for him to notice her gaze lingering on his mouth. When he drew closer still and smoothed his thumb over the curve of her cheek, she lost track of them entirely.

“Do you think we’ll ever dream of each other again, like Taris?” he asked, low and earnest.

Some resolve she’d fashioned in the wake of their dearly-won victory, Yuon’s coy encouragement, and the bravado of familiar surroundings fractured at his innocent question. The connection that often lingered after healing blazed with unfamiliar sensations that she hadn’t the strength to unravel now. Even without the physical contact, even with all her practiced resolve and Jedi training, his emotions wound around and through her, as impossible for her to ignore or deny as a starship could the pull of a gravity well. Waiting for her answer had allowed him plenty of time to sweetly tilt her face up to his.

With an austere resolve she was distantly surprised to find intact, she pressed a hand to his chest, where not long ago she’d smoothed her palm over his bare skin in the wake of the most desperate healing she’d ever undertaken. Aitahea answered, her whisper breaking on a last fragment of jagged verity: “I never stopped.”

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of overwhelming, unshielded, achingly reciprocated need, and pushed him away. She bit down hard on the soft sound of loss that threatened to escape her throat when he jolted back, the sudden distress and regret that tolled through her – no, him – no. Through them both. She struggled to inhale a tremulous breath.

When she could bear to open her eyes again, Erithon looked physically pained, his confusion and concern shearing through her own exhausted disappointment. He’d stepped back, hands open and empty, doubt beginning to tarnish the bright threads that had encircled them. “That was out of line, I’m sorry.”

“No, I was… You – I’m not –” Aitahea pressed her lips together hard to keep them from trembling, but it couldn’t stop the stinging in her eyes, the ache in her chest. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No.” He shook his head, vehement. “Don’t be. Please.” Erithon hesitated, trying to work up a friendly grin in contrast to his stiff posture, but only managed a wan quirk of his lips. “I told you on Taris that we’d do something better.”

She exhaled in a rush and allowed a smile to flutter across her face. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, you did. Thank you.” Better! It was wonderful. Too wonderful. I never wanted to stop. We should have finished the song. “I should… retire for the night… if I’m to pick up Master Sidonie’s trail tomorrow.” She glanced toward her door, promising the solace of isolation and hopefully sleep. She was exhausted, utterly, but couldn’t resist one last watery smile. “Thank you, Erithon.”

His usual ebullient charm at least marginally recovered, he offered her a bow as crisp and practiced as any noble in the castle. “Goodnight, Aitahea.”

~

Aitahea waited for the door lock to engage before she sank back against it, hands over her face, about to release the pent-up sob clawing at the back of her throat.

On the suite’s balcony, Qyzen Fess shifted carefully but deliberately, his armor creaking in the silence. The door rattled noisily as she flattened against it in disbelief, reaching for a lightsaber that was not there. Of course not.

“Apologize if I startle you, Herald.”

Disquieted by her own panic, Aitahea bit back an uncharacteristically sharp retort, closing her eyes to draw a calming breath in its place. After releasing it, Aitahea raised a carefully neutral face to her friend. “I’m sorry, Qyzen, I wasn’t expecting you. Well done, you successfully snuck up on a Jedi.”

“Was not aware of such challenge.”

She sighed. “An attempt at a joke, Qyzen. A failed attempt, apparently. To add to the rest I’ve made this mission.” Aitahea sank gratefully into an overstuffed chair, letting the beautiful but unfamiliar shoes slip off her suddenly aching feet. “What changed your mind about the castle?”

“Mind not changed. Will return to ship after speaking.” Qyzen hovered near the balcony doors, clearly uncomfortable and anxious to depart. “Must see how Scorekeeper’s Herald fares.”

Aitahea tenaciously schooled her expression to serene but was unable to shake the tendrils of failure and regret that clung like shadows. “Tired, Qyzen. Thank you for checking.”

“Herald will rest.” Aitahea couldn’t decide if that was a question or suggestion, but either way, she agreed.

“Yes.”

AN: It's been such a journey to get here, to this chapter in particular that I’ve been imagining for such a long time. I’ve been stuck here since 2020; I’m so glad you’re still here with me. With us, I suppose. Enjoy. May the Force be with us all. Thank you.

Thank you to the ever-present, dependable, and brilliant Taraum for beta-reading.

Best Intentions *COMPLETE* Masterpost | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Bonus! Soundtrack @ Spotify

#swtor fanfic #swtor fanfiction #star wars the old republic #fanfiction #jedi consular #republic trooper #alderaan #adventure #romance #fluffy #oc: aitahea daviin #oc: erithon zale #erithon/aitahea #chapter 8 #chapter eight #NEW CHAPTER #UPDATED

[yanderecandystore]

The bullies with an S/O that’s just completely off the board? Like no matter how much they look the bullies can’t find /anything/ on them, all their school papers are forged and their home just isn’t able to be found no matter how hard they look? Maybe due to the S/O changing their identity after doing something bad?

That's hella specific and I love it?? XD

Sure thing boo, let me see what I can do.

Also, I'll change the ocs profiles to be paper drawings with digital coloring because believe me boo, I'm tired of redrawing them (and I believe y'all are tired of always seeing these new drawings).

I noticed that my paper art is a lot better than my digital art, and although I'm kinda proud of them I still feel a little petty because I wish to do cool stuff on the computer ;-;.

Anyway, just a heads-up if you see something off with the oc's bios.

TW/Tags: I have no idea what to tag this lmao // identity theft // illegal/unauthorized inscription // not an accurate representation of university/how universities work lol // abusive household/abusive parents // I may or may not have changed your concept a little, I'm sorry for it 😔

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

Suspicion (fuck yeah, I don't know what to title this) [Yandere!Bully OC x Reader - Headcanon]:

→Adrien Coldwell:

For a person that prides themselves as the "know it all" when it comes to people's social media and reputation, he doesn't know anything about you.

This is a first for him, which is both annoying and honestly so intriguing. You didn't strike him as a person who would hide any secrets, and he had a hunch this was about to be good.

He searched for social media first, not finding anything about Avery Remington. Well, at least nothing with your face on it.

However, he did find something very, very interesting while looking at the school's documents, specifically the archives of all the students that have already studied here. He honestly didn't think he would find anything about you in these old papers, he was probably doing all this stupid work for nothing.

However, he was half right and half wrong. He didn't find anything about you, but this whole search wasn't completely lost, as he did find "you", Avery.

"- Student name Avery Remington, average grades and apparently no history of wrong doings or any bad behavior in general. Their registration to the Academy dates to 1980."

Oh. Ooooh, this was rich.

"- Huh." He said closing the documents and letting it where he found it. He was at least kind enough to let the palace a little organize after going through each paper trying to find your name.

Well, "your name". The only things that he kept for himself was photos of both the old documents about Avery Remington, and the earlier documents about Avery Remington. It was clear that you did something probably really, really bad, and you know he'll take advantage of it.

He had built his own theory about this, as in: you somehow found the paperwork of Avery's registration and their previous school's records so you could somehow impersonate them and get a free entrance to this institution.

He knew that you had something to hide, no one can be so perfect. But knowing the action itself wasn't enough for him, he needed to know the motive behind it.

For someone that is lazy and doesn't bother to care about important things, he sure spent a lot of time trying to scoop some dirt on you. When he finds the perfect opportunity, without any witness around, he'll take the chance to use this information against you.

"- Well, hello "Avery"." His tone was already suspicious, his voice not hiding anything from you. He came here to belittle you for his own entertainment.

"- H-Hi Adrien." You said shyly, hoping that your anxious mind was wrong and that this was all just a misunderstanding. You were hoping that the growing feeling of him possibly knowing about your fraud, was wrong.

"- Ya know, I'm kinda jealous of whatever plastic surgery you went through to look so young, maybe you should ask the faculty to correct your age tho." He said while showing the pictures he took of the documents.

"- Wait! I-I can-"

"- Honestly, I didn't think you were over 60 years old! Could have fooled me." His smug face was the selling point. You knew that you wouldn't find any form to convince him that what was on his phone was false.

He had a victorious smile on his face. Ever since you entered this school you always acted a little too paranoid and almost too friendly for his liking, and to confess to himself that he has fallen for you would be the bottom of the pit to him.

Still, he wanted to know why you did it. Why didn't you pay to get in if you wanted the scholarship so badly? What, you were too poor for it?

And what about a talent, or the test? Obviously, the university hasn't gone out of their way to pick a loser like you and insert you inside their classes on a whim, as they thought you were Avery Remington, a student that is already registered in school's documents (yet, of course, their system haven't verified the date of the registration, either by incompetence or by a "small mistake"). So you didn't do the test too, simply pathetic honestly.

Your sad dramatic story explaining how you managed to get into the academy. You did your best to get into the academy by legal means, but they always rejected you. Apparently you thought it would be a good idea to use your grandparent's documents to squeeze yourself into the institution.

"- But why in hell would you do such a thing? Are you that pathetic dearest?"

"- I… I wanted somewhere to go. Somewhere I could grow into a better person, a-away from-" You cut yourself short when the memories of your old home started to come into view.

For some reason, your parents couldn't stand the idea of you getting into a decent university, if anything, they thought you weren't capable of even washing some dishes at the local pizzeria. In their eyes, you were worthless.

When you found out your grandparent used to frequent this institution, and that they managed to disattached themselves from their familial routes and thrive as a musician you got instantly inspired! Determined to follow their steps and prove your family that you're just as worth ass-

"- Urghhhh- Boring! I don't care about all of that. Are you serious? You committed a crime just so you could stick it up to your shitty parents?"

"- …. Yes?"

"- Huh. Geez you're cooler than I thought. Listen, how about we make a deal?"

The deal was simple, he would not tell anyone about your little secret, and he would even help you keep your scholarship and help you reach your ambitions as long as you started spending more time with him. Which, at first you thought it sounded absurd, this man is holding your whole life by a thin thread as long as you give him attention?? What?!

And although that sounded extremely suspicious, you accepted it, not knowing that for the next few years you would have to endure a harsh training to discover your talents and to improve them before you two graduated. However, you started to think Adrien was starting to see your deal in a different light-

"- Come on now, after this we can go eat something okay? Where would you like to go this time? Our last date I chose the best restaurant I know, so you better choose something of equal value."

…. Date?

→Alexandra Coldwell:

You were suspicious from the very start. Overly friendly and too- Ugh! Too cute?!

You were always skittish whenever someone called you. What, you had a problem with your name or something?

And the worst part was how no one seemed to know where you lived. Every group project with you was considered annoying by most of your classmates, as you never called people in your house or never let anyone have your address, not even your phone number??

You didn't have any social media, what are you, a weirdo? What the hell??!

She is not even pissed about you being a loser, she is pissed that she has fallen for someone like you! A complete weirdo that was always panicking over nothing.

She started stalking you with the intention of finding at least one thing that she could hate on you so she wouldn't feel so- Lovey dovey towards you!

But what she really found was something worth an entire gold mine.

A private phone call between you and someone who was losing their shit. She couldn't understand too much of the conversation as she didn't have any context, yet she could hear a lot of things that you and the person were discussing.

The person yelled [Y/N] multiple times while in the phone call, saying how you were absolutely the worst mistake of their lives (which by the way, rude much? Who is this asshole?), that you were a selfish brat that needed to learn to appreciate their hard work.

Oh… Oh. She now knows who you're talking with. She decided to record the entire thing the moment she saw you taking your cellphone to have a private call.

She was planning on recording your voice for her own hearing pleasure, but this? This was so… Interesting.

"- [Y/N]?" She called your attention after the conversation ended, and because you haven't been accustomed to people calling you "Avery", you turned around saying "what" instinctively.

And when you noticed Alexandra smirk for a split second, you regretted answering your parents call. Not that you needed anymore reason to regret it, but this was certainly the last nail in the coffin.

You begged for her to understand that you couldn't go back, you simply can't go back to them, ever again! You told her the whole sob story about how your grandparent had decided to run away from home and fulfil their own dreams as a musician, even if people didn't really hear their music all that much, and now that you think about it, that's probably the reason why no one have recognized their name at all.

Your grandparent had a really small fanbase, and you knew that because you were part of them. They weren't popular at all compared to Amaryllis Academy standards, yet they were happy singing their songs to the world.

You kinda wish your family hasn't broken the old recorder that belonged to your grandparent. Their first album was in there, it was cheesy and filled with errors, yet they sounded so happy when doing what they loved, and you wanted something like that for yourself!

You needed to live that hell hole and so you did. You rented a small apartment that was falling apart, the reason why you never gave people your address was because you knew they would bully the hell out of you because of how poor you are.

After finishing your story you noticed Alexandra snoring beside you. You thought she was only exaggerating, but then you saw her drooling and acting really dizzy after you woke her up.

"- Oh my God, so… That was it? You ran away to follow your dreams and stuff?" She asked, still kinda sleepy.

"- What? Of course it was-" You were fuming with anger, how dare she-

"- And I thought you only looked cool because I liked you! You're pretty strong for sticking up for yourself." She interrupted you, looking at you with admiration in her eyes.

She proposed to you a deal. How about you two keep this secret together, and, if anything does happen she'll still help you stay inside the institution. However, you'll need to work your ass out to become the best you can be, and you'll let her guide you through, because you're too much of a dummy to do it all by yourself. You'll have to spend time with her and let her help you out.

At first, you thought it sounded absurd, this woman is holding your whole life by a thin thread as long as you give her attention?? What?!

And although that sounded extremely suspicious, you accepted it, not knowing that for the next few years you would have to endure a harsh training to discover your talents and to improve them before you two graduated. However, you started to think Alexandra was starting to see your deal in a different light-

"- Why you never hold my hand? Come on, "Avery", won't you hold the hand of your dearest girlfriend?" She asked playfully while taking your hand anyway.

…. Girlfriend?

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

#sheep stuff #yandere oc #sheep's stuff #yandere x reader #yandere bully #yandere twins #yandere oc headcanons #yandere oc x reader #yandere bully x reader #yandere bullying #yandere headcanon #special delivery headcanons #special delivery request #yandere

[lassostark]

Summary:

Jaskier has a secret. Well, he has two.

The first is that he's in love with Geralt Rivia, captain of the rugby team and his childhood best friend. Only, they're no longer best friends. His second secret is that he writes Geralt poetry and anonymously posts it at the school's Freedom Wall under the pseudonym of Dandelion. And the thing is, Dandelion has become so popular - more popular than Jaskier - that it's getting more difficult to keep his silence when it's clear that Geralt is starting to develop feelings for the mysterious lovesick poet.

How naïve was Jaskier to think that it would be so easy.

Excerpt:

Dear Heart,

You’re the moon And the world is a lonely wolf; It cries at the sight of you For you are glorious And so out of reach.

Yours, Dandelion

~

“Ooh, another one from Dandelion!”

“Wha— really?”

“Where?”

“Move over, let me read!”

“That’s the second time this week! They’re being productive, eh?”

“Has anybody told Rivia yet? Oh, wait there’s— Triss! Hey! Have you seen Geralt?”

“I just got in, Duny. What is it?”

“Dandelion posted another poem at the wall.”

“Bloody hell, they’re on a roll.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Piss off, Chireadan. Nobody asked you.”

“Okay, Geralt just replied ‘on my way’. Where’s the poem?”

“It’s up there, the blue circle post-it.”

“… Oh. That’s quite painful.”

“I know.”

“They’re pining so hard they could build a forest.”

There’s a collective sigh of exasperation.

“Again, Chireadan: piss off.”

~

Jaskier slings his bag over his shoulder and closes his locker with a soft thud before going the opposite direction where the small crowd is forming in front of The Freedom Wall.

When he was in freshman year, the bulletin first gained popularity after the student council during that year proposed it to the school as a way to encourage freedom of expression amongst its students in Morhen Academy. Since then, the school never took the bulletin off, and it gradually became a safe space for students to express their thoughts, opinions, as well as anonymously divulge their secrets and desires. For Jaskier, who’s now in his last year of high school, utilising The Freedom Wall for the past year and a half as a means to share his poetry without compromising his identity has become both a blessing and a curse.

It’s a blessing because he can write and post his poetry while his identity remains safe, having come up with the moniker of Dandelion after his favourite flower. Not that anyone would think to guess it’s him. Nobody knows that Jaskier is a lovesick poet, that he has filled out dozens and dozens of pages of writing he hasn’t shared to anyone. Until that fateful day.

It’s a curse because while he pours his heart out into his notebook with prose and verses, some carrying a tune more than others — it’s not like it’ll make the object of his (albeit secret) affections notice Jaskier. Even if he puts up a large neon sign over his head, there’s just no way Geralt Rivia, resident captain of the Morhen Wolves rugby team, would look twice at him and think that those pretty words written for him could ever come from someone like Jaskier.

There’s just no way.

He’s been setting himself up for disappointment and heartbreak from the start, he knows that. He’s more than aware of that fact. But let it not be said that Jaskier Pankratz has always had a dreadful habit of hurting himself further.

Jaskier grows up with two parents and two older siblings. One of his early memories about his parents is that they always fought, and his siblings always bullied him just because he was the youngest.

Jaskier is six when he made his first friend.

He and one Geralt Rivia became inseparable after Geralt pushed their classmate Valdo Marx on the playground after he shoved Jaskier to get to the swing first.

They played together, had recess together. Some weekends, they would sleepover at each other’s place, though Jaskier preferred staying over at Geralt’s because he was scared that if his best friend heard his parents fight, then Geralt wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore.

Jaskier is nine when his parents separated.

He and Geralt still have sleepovers, but it’s Jaskier who often stays at his best friend’s place. He also adores Geralt’s mum. Visenna Rivia being an excellent baker and never failing to indulge the young boys’ every whim.

~

It’s later in the week and Jaskier has sequestered himself in his usual corner at the cafeteria. His packed lunch has always been the same since freshman year. The sandwich of the week (it’s tuna this time), a pear (it varies, sometimes it’s an apple, sometimes it’s grapes), and a juice box and bottled water.

He likes the quiet. Prefers it, really. But sometimes he’ll be joined by a couple of his friends. Chireadan, Renfri, Shani, and Priscilla are the ones who frequent his table at the corner. Triss, who’s Jaskier’s lab partner this year, as well as Duny and Pavetta, join him on occasion. But most of the time, Jaskier has the table to himself. And he’s perfectly fine with it, too.

With his creative mind, all he needs is his brown leather-bound notebook and favourite pen, and it’s more than enough. It should be.

Jaskier is munching on his pear while fiddling with a torn bracelet he’s decided to use as a bookmark for his notebook when he hears boisterous laughter across the cafeteria. He looks up, only to see the rugby team on the long table they pushed together in the middle of the area to accommodate the dozen players that make up the Morhen Wolves. They’re talking animatedly, voices loud and piercing, while others throw food at each other.

And right in the middle of it is Geralt Rivia. He’s one of the only people there who’s seated calmly, although Jaskier can see that small, upwards twitch on the corner of his mouth. The only indication that the silver-haired captain finds the whole thing amusing. Jaskier’s heart aches in that moment.

Then suddenly, Geralt looks up from his conversation with Eskel to meet Jaskier’s eyes.

Shit, Jaskier curses himself. He averts his eyes and ducks his head instead, cursing himself further when he feels his cheeks heat up with embarrassment at being caught.

He forces himself to focus on his leather-bound notebook, jotting down a few lines for a new song he has in mind. All the while, he continues to fiddle with the bracelet.

~

On Geralt’s tenth birthday, Jaskier gifted his best friend a drawing of the two of them. Before discovering his love for writing, Jaskier was a pretty decent artist, so he carefully drew a mountain with the sun rising behind it, two figures — one with chestnut hair and one with dark grey — standing beside each other on a forked road before them.

“Why is it forked?” Geralt asks Jaskier with a curious tilt of his head.

Jaskier shrugs. “I thought it looked nice. Why draw one road when you can draw two, right? And besides, that way you can choose which path to take!”

Geralt frowns. “But what if you don’t want to go in the same direction as me?”

“Don’t be silly, I’d follow you anywhere! You’re my best friend!”

“Well, I’d follow you, too.”

The two young boys share grins, and they only get up when Geralt’s mum calls them for dinner.

~

It’s the middle of November now, and since Jaskier started posting his poetry on The Freedom Wall near the end of second year, he always arrives at the school earlier than usual to put up the post-it at the bulletin.

There’s nobody in sight, the hallways void of students and teachers alike. Luckily, the bulletin is only a few feet away from his locker, which is also near the boy’s toilet. So in case he hears anyone approaching, Jaskier can make a quick escape.

Checking that the coast is clear and he can’t hear any footsteps approaching, Jaskier swiftly takes out the yellow rectangle post-it from between the pages of his notebook. Using one of the coloured thumb tacks pinned to the bulletin, Jaskier goes on his tip toes to pin the note to the upper right corner. Satisfied, he straightens with a huff of breath and takes a moment to scan the other messages posted, eyes landing on other anonymous writings pinned in the bulletin.

“My parents are getting a divorce. I might move schools next term. I don’t want to go.”

“I came out to my family last night over dinner, and for the first time I saw my dad cry. He’s a lawyer, and I can’t even remember the last time we had a heart-to-heart. But he hugged me and told me he loved me.”

“Sure, this school has a zero tolerance for bullying. But what if it’s ourselves we’re bullying? Sometimes, I’m scared of my own thoughts.”

“FUCK HOMOPHOBIA. FUCK RACISM. FUCK ISLAMOPHOBIA. FREEDOM FOR ALL!!!”

“What if one day you wake up and you find that you’re the person you’ve always wanted to be? What would you do?”

“The cafeteria needs to revamp their menu. There’s only so much baked fucking potato I can consume in a goddamn week.”

“This country isn’t for me. As an immigrant, I don’t feel like I belong. But then I remember where I came from, where my family suffered for years of poverty and oppression. And that’s when the gratitude comes. How can I be so selfish when my parents sacrificed so much for my sisters, just so we can be safe and have a bright future?”

“Anyone got any guesses who Dandelion is?”

A bubble of surprised laughter erupts from Jaskier upon reading the last one. He purses his lips and reads it a second time, eyes attentively going over the spidery scrawl of the letters. He’s half tempted to take it down, but Jaskier knows he can’t. No student is allowed to remove or discard anything that’s posted at The Freedom Wall. Nobody except the teachers and caretakers, who clear out the massive bulletin drilled into the wall every week.

Some part of Jaskier twinges in sorrow every time he sees his writing, though anonymous, be discarded so carelessly like yesterday’s leftovers. Once it’s out there, it’s never really gone, though. His words are immortalised elsewhere. What he chooses to share is only a fragment, a sliver, of the deeper parts of Jaskier’s heart.

He only ever posts at the bulletin for one person, anyway.

~

Dear Heart,

The universe is a brilliant writer; It wrote your name in my stars Before any of us existed So when the time comes They’ll light up your path — And lead you straight to me.

Yours, Dandelion

~

Like everyone, Jaskier is walking briskly to his next class, which happens to be AP English Literature. He’s adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder, mumbling to himself about purchasing a new one that weekend. He’s fixing the zipper of his bag when he rounds the next corner, only to collide hard with a solid body.

“Oomf!”

Jaskier hits the ground on his arse. His bag, halfway open, spills the contents between him and the person he bumped into.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” a gruff voice says above him, sounding just as shocked.

Jaskier stiffens, belated realising that the figure he collided with didn’t even move from the spot. Slowly, he raises his head to meet Geralt’s golden eyes.

Swallowing past the dryness he suddenly finds lodged in his throat, Jaskier quickly stammers, “I-it’s fine!” He clears his throat. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t see you. Was a bit occupied wrestling with my stupid bag.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt replies in that same gruff voice, although his tone is soft.

He looks away from Geralt’s eyes, unable to hold his piercing gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. It’s akin to looking directly at the sun, and Jaskier, who’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, fears that if he stares too long that Geralt will see something he doesn’t want to see. So instead, Jaskier focuses on gathering his books, notebooks, and pens scattered on the deserted hallway.

Wait. Deserted? Since when?

Ah, fuck. It doesn’t matter.

Jaskier is shoving his History book into his bag when he feels more than sees Geralt crouch in front of him. He wordlessly passes Jaskier some of his pens, which he accepts with a mumbled “thank you”. When he catches sight of Geralt clutching a brown, leather-bound notebook in his large hands, Jaskier feels his heart stop.

His eyes drift from the notebook to the rough-looking hands, and up to the chiseled features of Geralt’s handsome face. And he is. Handsome. Breathtakingly beautiful, with his sharp jawline and the high cheekbones. Full lips that are dry but look soft at the same time, an odd juxtaposition in Jaskier’s humble opinion.

Geralt is still looking at the notebook, Jaskier notes, thick fingers slowly stroking the spine as golden eyes study the initials embossed on the front cover.

“You’re finally using it,” Geralt comments, thumb lightly stroking the thin leather cord that keeps the notebook closed.

Jaskier gulps inaudibly. Give it back, give it back. Please.

“I’ve been using it for years,” he reveals quietly. Jaskier shrugs when Geralt looks up to meet his eyes. “Took you long enough to notice.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him before he snorts softly and — thank god — finally hands it back to Jaskier. He more or less snatches it from the other man, careful not to let their fingers graze.

“It’s not like I always have my eyes on you,” Geralt eventually says.

Jaskier finally zips his bag closed, and they rise up from their crouched positions. Jaskier opens his mouth to make a sarcastic retort, but stops himself when the words register to him.

He tilts his head at Geralt. “Does this mean you sometimes have your eyes on me?”

Geralt blinks, and he looks startled for a moment that Jaskier can’t help but chuckle. It’s so easy to push his buttons, Jaskier has almost forgotten how much fun he used to have getting a rise out of Geralt.

“That’s not— I don’t—”

“Relax, Geralt. I was only teasing.”

Geralt shuts his mouth, looking nonplussed.

“Hmm.”

Oh, he’s definitely missed that, Jaskier thinks with a pang. His earlier mirth recedes, amused smile fading from his face.

They stand in front of each other in awkward silence. Jaskier fixes the strap of his bag over his shoulder as he fixes his eyes on his black Converse shoes.

Geralt clears his throat.

“Thanks, er, for the help,” Jaskier states. He chances a glance up and fights down a flinch when he sees Geralt already looking at him.

“Sure,” Geralt acknowledges with a nod, his expression pinched.

Jaskier thinks he looks a cross between constipated and freaked out. Could be a bit of both, who knows?

“So. I’m gonna go. I have AP English.”

Geralt nods again.

“AP Biology for me.”

“Okay. Er. Bye.”

“… Bye.”

It’s with an awkward wave, and a more awkward smile, that Jaskier walks past Geralt to turn the corner and get to class. Which he’s already a minute late for, fuck.

If his heart is hammering against his ribcage, and his palms happen to be sweaty and his cheeks flushed pink, Jaskier convinces himself it’s because he hightailed it across the hallway in record time to avoid getting detention from Ms. Tissaia.

Yeah. That’s why. It’s because he ran.

(Read the rest on AO3)

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #the witcher fic #jaskier #geralt of rivia #modern au #high school au #jock!geralt #nerd!jaskier #my writing

[ink-and-flame]

Kinktober Day 2: The Scarlet Eclipse - Initiation

Kinktober Day 2 Prompts: Nipple Play ~ Tickling ~ Immobilization

Fandom: Original (Auchendale Archives)

Tags: Exophilia, nipple play, bondage, immobilization, tickling

Pairing: Human(F)/??(M), Reader(f)/Lucien

[Author’s Note: Someone told me they were quite fond of Lucien, so I thought I would give him a solo story and make it a Reader story as best I could.] 

You were new to Auchendale, drawn to it for the unique way the city had been built and how it thrived. Integration, unity, a strange sense of community. Yes all cities had some level of a mixing of races, but here it was different. Every building, every business, each home or structure meant for habitation, they were built with diversity in mind. There was no standard, each race, each size, would find some place they could fit in. 

No buildings or businesses had racial exclusions, in Auchendale it simply was not allowed. It was that diversity that drew you in, caught your interest, but it was the beauty of Auchendale that made you fall in love with it. A strange yet functional blend of modern convenience and nature coexisted to make one of the most unique cities in the world.

Wanting a new and unique experience you chose to move into one of the neighborhoods where the homes were built into the natural features of the hillsides and trees. You couldn’t afford a large space, but a nice tree dwelling had been up for sale. It was simple, cozy, just big enough for you and all your belongings, with a little extra space that helped you feel less cramped. 

The natural shade of the tree helped keep you cool in the heat of the summer, and it was equipped with modern conveniences such as electricity. Solar powered of course, which was nice because you needed to keep your bills down. Everything about your cozy little home made you happy.

However, it wasn’t just the unity that drew you to Auchendale, there was more. A club, one that was well known in the circles you frequented. It was considered a high end establishment, one of the best, a must experience for anyone in the kink community. Individuals traveled all over to experience the club for one day, but now that you lived here, you could experience it as much as you liked.

You had submitted an application before your move, providing all of your information and your future address, anything to speed the process along. As the club's popularity grew, membership became more difficult to attain. Their vetting process was extended and minimum requirements had to be met for those wanting more than a day pass. 

Once your membership had been accepted you almost couldn’t control your excitement. You had wanted this for so long and felt that this was really the last piece you needed before your new life felt more complete. You had been so patient, waiting for the membership to go through, all the extra vetting, the references, the interviews, but now you were a member. 

Not just any member, you had applied to be a submissive of the club itself. One that worked there, and could be offered to the guests at your discretion. With no master of your own, and a curious spirit, you were perfect for the club. It was a benefit only offered to the V.I.P. guests, and not everyone who applied would be selected, but you were one of the lucky ones. It also meant that you could supplement your income with what you earned from the club. Making it easier to live comfortably. 

There was only one final step left. Despite being hired, passing all the interviews and being vetted by some of the existing staff, there was an initiation rite. To be employed by the club was different from just being a member and participating. You had some freedom to choose, there was a list of Doms that could perform the initiation as it was considered a bit of a test. 

You had looked over their information, their profiles, and their preferences and narrowed it down to three. It wouldn’t be until your employee orientation that you had to choose which of the three, but you were willing to take a risk and let it be random just to show that you were willing to work with anyone, willing to step outside your standard comfort zones. It would make you more valuable as a sub and you knew it. 

As the weekend came closer your excitement and nervousness increased. You had already sorted your outfit, and packed your club bag full of anything you could imagine you might need. As it was the first day, you wanted to be prepared, and your eagerness had you checking and rechecking your bag to make sure you didn’t forget anything essential. Looking professional and put together was important for this situation. This was not the time to be casual or half ass anything, you wanted to ace this initiation and show your willingness and make a great first impression. 

The night finally arrived and you could barely sit still. Opting to use a car service, you wanted to make sure that you didn’t have to leave your car stranded there in the event you were simply too exhausted to drive home. It cost a little more than you liked, but until you could gauge what you might feel like after a shift working the club, you just didn’t want to risk it.  

Arriving at the club you stood outside for a moment, collecting yourself. Pulling out your phone it took a moment to find the right email, just in case there was an issue at the door. You wanted to be more prepared. You were using a backpack for a purse, and a gym bag for your changes of clothes and gear. Currently you opted for a nice coordinated gym set with leggings, a sports bra, and a loose t-shirt. Comfortable clothing would be essential for afterward, but you didn’t want to make assumptions so you brought other options for your initiation. 

Making your way inside it was quiet. This was a couple hours before opening, and you were a bit earlier than what was expected. The nervousness and not driving yourself meant you would rather be a little too early than even a minute late. Someone that looked like a bouncer blocked your way.

“We aren’t open for another few hours, and that isn’t acceptable for our dress code” 

You looked up and up, and up some more at the large man who was clearly not human, but you weren’t really sure what he was. He had tusks like an orc, but tan instead of green skin, and thick dreads, he also had horns.

“Oh, um.. I.. here see, I was hired, but I have to do my initiation?” As you spoke your nerves kicked in, you felt awkward and uncertain. 

His demeanor instantly changed. A big wide smile spread across his face and he laughed a bit, his voice deep. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t get the memo to expect anyone. Probably should actually check my email more than once a month. No hard feelings, let me show you to the employee area. You here for orientation? You said initiation?” He looked a bit confused. “Oh, I’m Naz. I head up security mostly, do a few other side jobs, but my main job is making sure the employees and patrons are safe and everyone plays nice.”

His smile revealed that he had two sets of tusks, the larger ones you saw before, and the smaller ones that only showed when he smiled. He was, attractive, in a scary sort of way. Though you were pretty sure he was well over 7 feet tall and could crush your skull with one hand, that did not help identify his species and you realized that you were just staring, in a somewhat impolite way.

“Um, both. I have orientation and my initiation. I was hired on as one of the subs that would serve in the lounge for the VIP guests.” 

“Oh, well that makes a lot more sense now.” Naz chuckled and just smiled at you. “I get this a lot. I’m a half ogre. Mom’s an ogre, and my dad is a brave human.” He laughed and waved for you to follow him. “Not offended by the way, people stare at me all the time, I don’t mind it when the person doing the staring is cute. Sorry for the dress code thing. I wasn’t trying to insult you but we have had to institute some new rules to keep some of the less desirable people out. We’ve had a rash of people coming in on dares, or just coming in with ingenuine intent.” 

“Oh, I, well I didn’t realize. I thought it would be better to show up in my after clothes and I brought spares because I am not sure what my test will be so I wanted to be prepared.” You followed him, having a hard time keeping your eyes off his ass. Boy was he built and you wondered if staff was allowed to fool around because you wouldn’t mind being tossed around by him. 

Following Naz to the back employee area you were greeted by other employees clearly getting ready for their own shifts. There were so many different races and everyone was so interesting looking. There was this air of class, of poise, that you worried you wouldn’t be able to maintain. It worried you, what if everything went perfect but you simply didn’t fit in with your coworkers. 

Distracted from your thoughts by a voice Naz smiled at you and gestured you over to where you needed to be before leaving. Clearly he had his own work to get done but you hoped that you might be able to see him again before the night was over. Moving over to where Naz gestured you introduced yourself to the lounge manager. They oversaw the bartenders, servers, and helped with the subs for the lounge. As you had already passed all your interviews this was just the formalities. Filling out all the HR paperwork, your financial documents, and getting your schedule set. Along with the employee handbook which was surprisingly larger than you had expected and knew you would need to put some serious time into reading it. 

“Ok, I know the handbook is a lot to read and it is important that you get through it before your first actual shift. Today is just going to be your initiation test with one of our VIP Dom’s, and right now we aren’t going to hold you to any of the more strict rules while you are just getting used to things, but it is essential that you focus on the section about conduct. That applies to anyone working the lounge the most. I see you have three potential choices here did you want to meet them or should I choose for you?”

“You can choose, I know that this job means I don’t always get to choose who picks me and while I have the right to say no if someone asks me to do something on my hard no list, I also understand that not being flexible means I wont keep this job long. Pick who you think would be best for my first test.”

“I like how you think, you will fit in well here, I can already tell. Well since he is on your list and is one of our most prominent and oldest members. I will have you work with Lucien. Don’t let his appearance frighten you. He is one of our most vaulted VIP members, and one of the best judges of character. We always try to get our new subs a session with him at some point. Anyone he can’t work with, tends not to last long.”

Well that made you nervous. He was scary and his opinion mattered enough that it could potentially mean you wouldn’t be employed long if he didn’t like you. Now you had a goal, to do anything you could to make sure this went smoothly. 

“I have changes of clothes and gear with me, does he have a preference or should I pick something neutral?”

“Lucien is actually flexible with those things. I think the best course would be to stay as you are, show him the options, and show how eager to please you are. That is going to help you the most where Lucien is concerned. Good luck.” 

With that she gestured for you to follow and lead you to a private room inviting you to sit and wait. Lucien would only be a few more minutes and this was your only duty for the evening. Your orientation had lasted until the club opened, and you knew that this was going to be a longer than average scene because it was more than just a scene. It was a test, an initiation, and there would be more to it than what you would need to do for a regular customer. 

Setting your bag down you waited patiently and startled a little when the door began to open. In stepped a tall lithe man, he had sharp features, long horns, and appeared demonic or maybe draconic in nature. There was something off about him, and now you knew why his appearance might frighten people. His eyes seemed to shift color and there were moments you were certain he was reading your mind or your soul.

“Greetings, I am Lucien, I will be the dominate handling your initiation today. I have been provided a list of your preferences, hard stops, and areas where you are willing to push your boundaries. Is there anything important I need to know before we begin?”

Swallowing you gestured to your bag. “I wasn’t sure who I would be paired with, so I brought different outfits and some of my personal gear. If there is anything you are fond of, I might have something with me to accommodate. You are welcome to go through my bag and pick anything that is to your liking.”

“Interesting, you didn’t choose me, I was chosen for you. How delightful. I rarely get to be the first, most are not brave enough to choose me. I don’t know why.” He smiled, his sharp teeth flashing as he lifted a hand in a passive gesture. Long fingers capped in even longer nails, he just stood there. “I do not make it a habit to go through another person's belongings. Even as a sub, you have a right to privacy, but I will happily go through the items with you.”

This was turning out to be interesting and unexpected. He looked like something out of a sexy nightmare, but he was also charming in a strangely disarming way. Opening the bag you pulled out an assortment of outfits, accessories, and some of your personal punishment gear. You had a favorite paddle and flogger, also some nice rope you just bought for this occasion should it be needed. 

“Lovely, so many nice options to choose from. The rope, and that hand full of nipple toys will be sufficient. I like the choices in outfits, but I need you nude for proper bondage. I intend to immobilize you, as it was not on your list of hard no’s. Do you consent to full immobilization?” Lucien stepped closer picking up the rope and sliding his long nails across the tight silky coils. 

“Yes, I consent, Sir.” 

His smile grew, eyes flashing bright orange shifting to red then back again. His sharp teeth far more noticeable in that wide smile. “Excellent. Do strip for me dear and we will begin.”

It took little time to strip off your clothing, placing it in the bag and stepping closer to Lucien. He guided you towards the bed in the room and helped you up onto it. For a few moments all he did was look at you, his eyes roaming over your body slowly. It was a bit unsettling but also exciting, his focus was completely on you and it made you feel somewhat giddy. 

Ever so slowly he began to bind you. The rope was soft against your skin as he bound your arms together above your head. Your arms were bent so your forearm touched your head and each wrist was bound to the opposite arms elbow. You knew your shoulders would be protesting at the end of this, but it was an interesting choice. It made it impossible to move your arms away from each other, and once he hooked the rope to a clasp on the headboard, you couldn’t move your arms at all. 

Skipping the core of your body he moved down to your feet and rubbed them gently. He put them next to each other, having you hold the position. Starting at your knees he wound a coil of rope all the way down your calves from your knees to your ankles leaving your feet free, but trapping your legs tightly together. This was a confusing choice, but it wasn’t your place to argue. Stretching out your legs he used a shorter length of rope, winding it through some of the coils between your ankles and securing it to the footboard of the bed. Now you really had a hard time moving. You could still wiggle, but it wasn’t comfortable. 

Lucien smiled down at you, feathering his touch over your body, letting his long nails tease your skin lightly. “You look so lovely like this, are you comfortable? Is anything pinching or painful?”

You shook your head, so far you were comfortable, or as comfortable as you could be in this position anyway. “Nothing hurts Sir, it isn’t a position I am used to, but I don’t feel pain.”

Nodding Lucien reached over to the selection of nipple toys. Starting with a small vibrator he teased each nipple to a nice peak. His gaze drifting between your breasts and your face, watching your expression, taking in the small changes as you began to feel pleasure. He seemed fine taking his time and continued to use the vibrator teasing between each nipple in turn until you were clenching your thighs and panting slightly. 

“Delightful. Darling you are so expressive in your pleasure. How about we try something a bit different.” 

Placing the vibrator to the side he picked up the little suction cups. They were manual suction cups and sized just right for nipples, though in a pinch they could be used on a clit if positioned properly. Attaching one to each nipple he slowly pumped the bulb on the end until he felt full resistance and then set the valve to closed, leaving them suctioned to your breasts, your nipples swollen and filling almost the entire little cup. 

The sensation was intense. It was somewhere between pleasure and pain. It felt good, especially when he had been pumping, but at the maximum it also stung. It was on the edge of being too much, but not quite enough for you to call a color yet. Panting slightly you licked your lips and realized they were dry, your whole mouth felt dry really. 

Reaching back over to the side table, Lucien picked the vibrator up again, turning it to the lowest setting and began running it on your breasts, around where the cup over your nipple met the skin. He watched you as he teased it over the skin of your breast for a while, slowly turning the vibrations up until they were at a medium setting. Then he ran the vibrator carefully over the cup suctioned to your nipple. 

The sensation was instantly electric, your body bowing off the bed slightly at the intensity of it. Your nipples were already hyper sensitive and inside the suction tube that sensitivity was increased exponentially. You cried out, panting, squirming as Lucien moved the vibrator all around the cup. Grabbing a second small vibe he set it to the same intensity and used it on the other nipple. The dual sensation driving you right to the edge. If you could even think straight you would be surprised you were so close to orgasm just from nipple play. 

The intensity was almost too much and you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to move away and squirm as the pleasure built higher, but the pain was right on its tail. The duality of the sensation, the pleasure and pain pushed you closer to that edge but you couldn’t quite go over it. You had no idea how long it went on, losing all sense of time, your focus centered completely on the sensations you were feeling.

Suddenly it stopped and you opened your eyes. You were taking deep heaving breaths, your entire body tensed up ready for release. Eyes traveling up you looked at Lucien, his gaze intense as he stared at you. His eyes were glowing, you were pretty sure it wasn’t a trick of the light or your mind messing with you, his eyes burned like pitch as he stared at you.

“What a delicious little toy you are, oh it will be difficult to share you, but I must. I was certain you would call a color, I could almost feel it, but you never did. I am impressed, and quite proud of you dearest.”

Slowly Lucien released the valves on the nipple pumps letting the air out and removing them from your swollen buds. They were twice the size they normally were, and incredibly sensitive. You squeaked and wiggled when he blew gently on them. Even that slight bit of stimulation shot straight to your core making your clit jump. 

With a smile Lucien leaned in and took one nipple into his mouth, his sharp teeth scraping the sensitive flesh of your breast gently, tiny pricks of pain against your oversensitized nipple as his soft tongue swept over the tortured bud. The texture of his tongue was like nothing you had ever felt and when he began to suckle, your hips arched as the pleasure made you clench hard. You could feel how wet you were now, certain there was a puddle beneath you on the bed. 

His body was against yours, and you struggled to recall when his clothing had actually come off. You could feel the heat of his skin, the muscles of his form as he pressed himself against you. One of his hands gripped your hip, those long nails digging into your flesh as he moved to the other nipple, more of his body pressed against yours. 

It was too much, the feel of him, of his body, of the strange warmth that seemed to radiate off of him. His hot mouth latched to your swollen sensitive nipple as he suckled and teased it with his tongue. It was too much to handle as you felt his nails bite into your skin that sharp twinge of pain mixing so close to the pleasure you were now feeling throughout your whole body. Desperate for even a single touch on your clit, but you didn’t need it. 

When Lucien growled around your nipple, you were lost. Your body arching as much as it could as you came. Your legs bound tightly together didn’t stop your orgasm, but you wanted more, you wanted so much more. Whimpering, moaning, crying out, you didn’t even realize you were begging for him until he pulled away looking at you with glowing eyes, his features sharper, ears longer,  he was otherworldly in his appearance and was looking at you as if he could devour you. 

“You don’t know what you are asking for dearest, you really don’t.” His voice was husky, smokey, it had a strange echo to it as if other voices were speaking along with his own. “Never tempt me, even my control has limits.”

Lucien pulled away moving into the shadows for a moment leaving you to calm down. When he returned he seemed to be clothed again and he smiled sitting on the bed with you. His hands stroking over your stomach, sides, and hips. He noticed the damage he had done to your hip and stroked it lightly. The pain receded for you, but you couldn’t really see what he had done.

“You did so well my dear, so very well, I am certain you will be quite popular here.”

As his hands moved back over your sides you giggled. You were very ticklish, especially after an orgasm, and those long nails were hitting your skin in a way it was hard to control. The giggling got louder and you notice the quirked brow as he looked at you curiously. It was when that expression turned mischievous that you knew you were in trouble. 

Lucien began to tickle you, not too hard, but oh was it working. It was torture. You couldn’t really move, you couldn’t escape, there was nothing you could do. The giggles turned to laughter, which turned to louder laughter and some tears as you lost control. You begged for him to stop, but didn’t color code. So his tickling continued until you were red in the face. 

It was clear he knew the limit, not wanting to actually harm you, and let you calm down as he began to unbind you. Having to cut some of the rope to get you out a little faster. 

“I simply could not help myself, your laughter is so delightful. You have such a bright soul.”

There was a pause as he finished unbinding you and helped you sit up so you could drink some cool water. He took the time to massage your arms and legs to help feeling return and wasn’t satisfied until he could feel warmth in both your hands and feet. You watched him carefully and risked ruining the moment.

“Why did you untie me, are we finished? You didn’t um.” It was odd, you just realized that Lucien did nothing that would bring pleasure for himself.

“You gave me everything I desired from this encounter, trust me my dear, I got what I needed and I plan to give you a glowing review. I do hope you will indulge me again some time. I promise not to overdo it on the tickling again.”

You nodded, laughing a bit. “Ok, I would like to do more scenes with you. Thank you, this was a unique experience.”

Lucien smiled, helped you to dress in your comfortable clothing and pack up your gear. He excused himself as he guided you back to the employee area, not stepping inside himself. Before leaving he bowed low, lifting your hand, kissing it with a flash of red in his eyes before walking down the hall and seeming to simply disappear into the shadows at the end of it. 

A shudder went down your spine as you stepped into the employee lounge. Lucien was a strange one, that was certain. Meeting back with the manager she smiled at you and lead you to a couch offering you a place to rest and some refreshments before signing you out for the night. It wasn’t until you tried to stand again that you realized just how exhausted you were. 

Heading out of the employee lounge and towards the door you passed the security office as you stumbled slightly. A strong arm catching you. Turning your head you looked up to see Naz staring at you with concern. 

“I hope you aren’t planning to drive like this?”

“Oh, no, I can call a service. I didn’t bring my car, I figured it might be like this so I planned ahead.”

Naz frowned and used his large hand on your back to guide you into the security office and gently nudged you into a chair. “How about instead of that, you wait a few more minutes and I can drive you home. I wouldn’t want you passing out in the back of a cab. We take care of our own here.”

Your cheeks darkened as you smiled at him. “Ok, but what if I pass out in your car?”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. I will make sure you get home safe, or you can crash in my spare room. Either way, you will have a safe warm place to sleep.”

Despite only meeting him today, you weirdly felt like you could trust Naz, and right now you were too tired to argue. 

“Ok, I will do my best not to pass out.” You laughed a bit and got comfortable as you watched the bouncers and other security staff come and go from the office, finishing up their duties for the night as the club was getting ready to close. 

#Auchendale Archives #reader story #monster boyfriend

[raendown]

A follower milestone gift fic for @birkastan2018 using the prompt word woolage.

Pairing: MikotoKushina Word count: 952 Rated: T+ Summary: Apparently I didn’t add a summary and I ain’t doing it now. 

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Morning Glory

If Mikoto could be described in just one word - an impossibility that Kushina had tried to accomplish several times before - the one that might come closest to encompassing everything about her would be ‘grace’. She was gracious and graceful and full of grace itself, graced by the gods and given grace by every life she touched. Honestly there were some times when Kushina wondered how they even became friends let alone how she managed to snag a date with this otherworldly creature that so clearly walked above the rest of them. When she’d tried to communicate that, though, Mikoto had given her such a look that Kushina bowed out of the conversation before it could even start. Without grace, of course, because Mikoto made her clumsy like that. 

The fact that there might be times when Mikoto was a little less than put together honestly never occurred to Kushina until she witnessed it herself for the very first time. Several dates in and it still felt like her heart was going to pound right out of her chest every time they kissed, that’s how far gone she was, so getting invited in to the woman’s bedroom for the first time definitely got some very embarrassing noises out of her. 

And then some very delicious noises out of them both. 

It was the morning after that really changed the way Kushina looked at the one who had stolen her heart so thoroughly. Waking was not, strictly speaking, her very favorite activity on any given day. Greeting the morning was usually done with grumbles, reluctance, and a frequently overzealous helping of profanity. Safe to say that she was not a morning person. Returning to consciousness after the single best night of her entire life did nothing to change habits built over a lifetime. Kushina wrapped both arms around her head and groaned like she could scare the sun away with enough annoyance in her voice. It was the echoing groan from a scant few inches to her left that sent a zing of energy through her veins and Kushina had never been more alert in her life than those few breathless moments it took to unwrap her own head and peak sideways. 

Then she was laughing. Rolling on to her stomach where she could press her face in to the pillow and hope it would muffle the sound of her startled delight. Apparently it didn’t.

“You’d better have a good reason for waking me up,” Mikoto’s voice growled, husky in the way of being pulled unwillingly from dreams. “There will be violence if you don’t.”

Kushina tried to answer, honestly she did, but one quick peek to the side had fresh peels of laughter ringing freely throughout the room. She would have felt a little bad but she also would have challenged literally anyone else on the planet not to laugh at the glorious sight all stretched out next to her and frowning with sleep irritation. Mikoto, apparently, suffered from bedhead. Even in the midst of chaotic battlegrounds her long dark hair managed to stay smooth and pretty, almost a taunt in and of itself. ‘Look at me’, it said, ‘look how little you matter, you can’t even muss up my gorgeous locks’. The state of her now said something entirely different.

It should not have been so utterly adorable to see a frown that deadly surrounded by dark dandelion fluff, hair crumpled and sticking out in every which direction at seemingly impossible angles. Static electricity from a night of rubbing against the pillow even had some of it standing straight up off her head. Kushina wondered for a moment if it was possible to die from cuteness overload. 

“‘ShiShi,” her girlfriend rasped, making her heart flutter all over again for the ridiculous nickname. “You have ten seconds to stop laughing at me or you will not be invited back to this bed.”

“Can you blame me?” Kushina retorted. She wasn’t even sorry for laughing. This was the best day of her entire life. 

“Yes I can.”

For the first time not even the finality of that tone gave Kushina pause, too wrapped up in the adoration filling her chest. If this was love it was something too big to fit inside her skin but by all the gods she wanted to try. Wanted to pull and tear and hold the fraying seams of herself back together as many times as it took to keep this. When she finally managed to sit up it was to run a hand through her own hair, briefly considering the irony that her much longer locks weren’t nearly as much of a disaster, then she turned to smile at the mess beside her. 

“I love that you’re human in the morning,” she said. The words spilled out with no thought just the same as most of her words did but as soon as she’d said them Kushina was struck with how much she meant it. Mikoto blinked through the lingering remnants of dreamland to squint up at her. 

“And I hate that you’re so talkative. A woman needs her beauty rest.” 

With that she rolled over and although Kushina laughed at her again it was a short burst, followed quickly by a minute or so of squirming while she wriggled her way back under the blankets and up against Mikoto’s body. 

“You’re already beautiful,” she said just to make sure that was understood, “but yeah. Go back to sleep. I’ll, uh, brush your hair for you when we get up?”

Mikoto’s grumbles were the sweetest music to fall back asleep to. Grace could return to them later in the day; for now Kushina held perfection in her arms. 

#rae writes #follower milestone #mikokushi #mikoto #kushina #fanfiction