#normal brain says trade for the one you actually need

[reverie-starlight]

sakusa is the number one guy to have an eye on you. If you so much as sniffle, he's pulling out he emergency scarf...

So he absolutely knows when you go on your period, but he tries to phrase it in a way that makes it kess obvious that he knows.

"is it that time already?"

how fitting is it that when I started writing this, my period did too? 🥲 sorry this took so long dira, I’ve been busier with school than I thought I’d be 😭 your other requests are in the works!!

gn!reader that menstruates, no physical descriptions. fluff fluff fluff. FLUFF. cuddly reader that's somewhat shy about affection. attentive kiyoomi. making this part of my MSBY!manager!reader mini-series as a little add-on :3

sakusa swears he can pinpoint the exact moment the switch flips in your brain and you succumb to the PMS feels.

you’re cuddling with him on the couch as a movie plays in the background when you shift a little. he glances down at his chest to see you resting your chin on his sternum, eyes wide as saucers and showcasing the familiar look of affection.

he sighs fondly and rests his hand on the back of your head. "someone feeling a bit needy?"

of course you are. he's been keeping track of your cycle since the beginning of your relationship, he has everything down to a T by now. he knows your symptoms, your usual cravings, how many days in advance he'll need to stock up on supplies... and it's never brought up, because you know he'd get a bit embarrassed if he were to be called out on it, but there's an unspoken understanding that he's tuned in to you and your body.

so obviously he knows that you're PMSing. even if he hadn't been tracking things, he'd know just by the way you had to keep yourself from clinging to him at practice earlier.

for whatever reason, you seem to become almost touch-starved just before your period, despite the constant stream of physical affection he gives you everyday.

so when you nod, he just smiles down at you softly and traces a heart on the apple of your cheek. “you did so well at practice today, manager.”

he thinks back to how you made it through the day despite waking up with a bad back and some sore thighs. another clue that tipped him off about your oncoming period.

you look up at him curiously, making his heart thump a little faster at how cute you look with your cheek smushed in his palm. “shouldn’t I be the one praising you for your performance today, actual athlete?”

he snorts, something he only ever finds himself doing around you. “I hear it enough everyday. How often do you get to?”

you nuzzle into his chest and he pretends that he doesn’t notice the shy smile you’re sporting. normally he would tease you, but he finds himself feeling much, much softer for you when you’re like this.

he rubs your lower back a bit and you whine at the relief it provides. “can I get you anything, my love?”

“kiyo, if you even think of getting up right now there will be hell to pay.”

he grins and scratches your scalp with his free hand. “of course, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

you lean up for a kiss and he happily obliges.

and so you stay like that for another ten minutes, the serene silence only broken by your stomach growling. “I’m not letting you go hungry. Let’s get you something to eat, come on.”

he picks you up and helps you wrap your legs around his waist before making way to the kitchen so he can fix you a snack. he works one handed, the occupied one settled under your thighs to support you, and listens to whatever you have to say.

needy as you may be, he wouldn’t trade getting to care for you for the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hope you enjoyed!

some tags: @emmyrosee @luvring @aayo-whatt

#sakusa x reader #sakusa x reader fluff #sakusa x gn!reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #hq x reader fluff #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader

[miss-atena]

For @/s1mp-4-th3-m3nt4lly-ins4n3!

Creepypastas with an S/O who does Self Harm

Feat. Jeff the Killer, Eyeless Jack, Ticci Toby, Jason the Toymaker and X Virus

TW: self harm, blood, blades

Jeff the Killer

Jeff is quite used at seeing people who do that sort of stuff, having caught some of his targets like that on some stalking missions, but seeing you do it? It pains him, in a way nothing else can, not even Jane or Slenderman.

Normally, due to his schedule of work being nocturnal rather than during day, he will not catch you doing it, but that doesn't mean he will not do his absolute best to make you feel deserving of love.

He usually picks you up in his arms and spin you two around until you fall on the bed. He then will cuddle you, saying how gorgeous/handsome you are, how much he is happy to have you in his life, how you are his world, and some cheesy stuff in the middle to get a laugh out of you

Eyeless Jack EJ

Jack gets sad when he finds you did it, but as the place non oficial therapist, he will hear you and be there for you. Most times he doesn't know what to say or do, but he thinks listening helps at least a bit.

When he catches you doing it though, he will get quite a reaction. His smell sense is really strong, and the smell of blood in your room, your blood, makes he feel guilty of not being there for you. But he gets to you, talk as much as he usually does as a shy and reclusive guy, patches you up and makes sure to get his mask off the way so he can kiss you scars

That is something he often does to show affection. He kisses your scars. No matter the history behind them, they are a part of you. You and only you is what he loves, what makes him feel human again, so he won't trade you for the world, with scars and everything.

Ticci Toby

Not gonna lie, he used to do that too. He knows the feeling of it. The pain, the cries as an aftermath and everything. He knows it. So that's why it pains him extremely seeing you do that, or just knowing.

Not that he blames you, Toby is the last one to blame you for anything. It's just unreal to him that you would consider hurt yourself, because he sees you as perfection.

When he found you doing it, he actually panicked, and you panicked, and then you two were both panicking. Not a good start. But when he got his grip in reality again he will just pick you up in bridal style, put you on your bed and after bandaging you, he will pamper the ever loving fuck out of you.

He knows in his heart that if he ever got a blade again in a bad state, he would be like that, and he also knows that you would do the same for him.

Jason the ToyMaker

Jason, after some centuries, lost quite a lot of his humanity. He gets manners and all that jazz, but he doesn't understand the concept of relieving pain. He even apologized for asking it, but he needed to understand.

But as soon as the gears in his brain clicked as to why you were doing it, oh boy.

He would constantly ask if you were alright, if there wasn't anything stressing you, if he could do something for you, maybe grab you your favorite snack, anything really. He is already a quite suffocating man, but he went completely bonkers.

When he found you doing it still, he bandaged you and hugged you tightly. He felt a lot of emotions all at once. He didn't want to lose you. So he asked what triggered it, and by God if you say the name of anyone he will get a way of killing them. He does anything for you.

After a while, he will not be as suffocating, but still be very much a careful man with his emotions around you, and will continue to pamper you in his way, by acts of service and trying to talk it out of you.

X Virus (Cody)

Cody is complicated, really. He normally doesn't see other humans as equal to him, he has quite a complexity to his brain. But he sees you differently as anyone else. His love and devotion for you go beyond whatever is expected out of him and his cold and gruesome ways.

When he finds out about you self harm scars, he questions where you got them. Then why. He doesn't grasp why things that others say affect you as much as they do, but he utterly respects you.

But the moment he catches you doing them, that's when things get difficult. Like Toby, his first reaction is panic and patch you up, but after that he immediately goes to ask EJ for help. He doesn't know what he should do, and he is shaken by seeing your blood. He didn't like it, which is different than his normal reaction to anyone's blood.

EJ will help him help you, as a sort of counselor to Cody. Cody will do his best with you, and when you fall asleep, he will go to EJ, which will tell him what to do or to say to you

#creepypasta #ticci toby #x virus #jeff the killer #eyeless jack #ticci toby x reader #x virus x reader #jeff the killer x reader #eyeless jack x reader #jason the toymaker #jason the toymaker x reader #headcanons #tw self harm #tw blades #tw blood

[player1064]

for the carraville prompts: jamie’s pov of your fic it’s just not what’s done, and him doing/saying increasingly gay things that fluster gary who thought he’d never have a chance with the straight boy

honestly I could write a full length fic of this I LOVE this idea but I am exercising restraint (read: i am too sleepy to keep writing but want to post it anyway) and cutting it off at 1.3k words. Jamie is so so annoying in this god bless xx

---

1996.

There’s a weird buzz in the air when Jamie arrives at Melwood in the morning, and not the usual frustration he’d expect the morning after the first team have lost a game. Everyone’s grouped in little huddles, hushed whispers that cut out when anyone else walks by, but the weirdest part by far is that everyone is holding a fucking newspaper.

He walks into the apprentice’s dressing room and snatches a paper out of one of the other lads’ hands. He turns straight to the back page, but there’s nothing particularly noteworthy there – United won the league, big fucking whoop – so he frowns and flips the paper back to the front page.

Jamie would normally dismiss anything The Sun prints as garbage, but a quick glance around the dressing room shows a few other papers scattered around, all with similar headlines. All with the same photo, printed to take up most of the page, full colour even on a weekday.

The Sun’s headline is not a particularly creative one, but is does get the point across quite succinctly: there, right above the grainy, dimly lit photograph, are the words GAY NEVILLE?

“Oh my fucking God,” he hears Michael whisper from behind him.

Gary Neville, right-back, Jamie’s brain helpfully supplies. Manchester United, 21 years old and already eight caps for England.

His next thought is: what a fucking idiot.

He doesn’t give a shit about the gay thing, not really – he did spend two years at boarding school, he knows what some of the boys got up to there. No, his issue is more that United have just won the league, and everyone knows in a few days they’ll be getting the double when they win the FA cup too. 21 years old, a starter for a team that’s about to make footballing history, a spot in the squad for this summer’s Euros, and the stupid prick’s just thrown it all away because he felt like getting off with someone at a club where anyone could see him.

Maybe he should ask his coaches about practicing in right-back. He has a funny feeling a spot’s about to open up on the England team.

 *

2004.

“Not so brave now that yer boyfriend’s fucked off to Spain, are ye?”

Neville gives him a disinterested look from across the tunnel.

“Not my boyfriend,” he says flatly, rolling his eyes like he’s recited that line a thousand times before.

He probably has, actually. Jamie needs to come up with better insults, something more original. He’ll workshop some for next time.

Still, better to dig in on this one. “No, I s’pose he’s not now that he’s traded you in fer better things. Yer not exactly a Galactico.”

Neville’s expression is still blank but there’s a hint of fire behind his eyes, which tells Jamie that he’s on the right track, that if he pushes just a little bit more he’ll be able to tip him over the edge.

He sees Keane step out from his place at the front of the line, turn to Neville and mutter “d’you need me to –”

“Couldn’t give a fuck, he’s not worth worryin’ over,” Neville replies, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.

There’s no time to say anything back, because the referee walks to the front of the tunnel and then it’s time to go start the game.

*

2006.

“How’s it work, then?”

Neville looks up from the bowl of Weetabix he’d been intently focused on and glances around the room, like he doesn’t believe it’s him Jamie’s talking to.

He shrugs. “How’s what work?”

“The gay thing. Did yous get to bring a WAG over too, or is that only for the normal lads?”

“Wouldn’t be a WAG, would it?” Neville mutters snobbishly.

He’s right, Jamie supposes. But that’s obviously not something he can admit, so he decides to lean in to the ‘stupid Scouser’ bit. “Why not?”

Neville squints at him suspiciously. “’cause he wouldn’t be a wife or girlfriend, would he?” He clears his throat, looks back down at his bowl. “If he existed, that is. Only brought my dad over for this tournament, does that answer your question?”

“Hmm,” Jamie says, ignoring the obvious cue to leave and taking a seat opposite Neville instead. “What would they call ‘im, if you weren’t a sad lonely old spinster… husbands and boyfriends… HABs? Doesn’t ‘ave quite the same ring to it, does it?”

*

2013.

“Why’d you never get married?”

Neville – Gary – looks up from his iPad to give Jamie his familiar ‘I can’t tell if you’re having me on or if you’re actually just stupid’ squint. “’s only been legal a few months, give us a break.”

“Civil partnered then, whatever. I don’t get it. You’re rich, you were a footballer. I know you’re ugly but looks don’t really factor into it, if your brother’s marriage is anythin’ to go by.”

Gary scowls at him. “Different measures of attractive when you’re gay. I’ll ‘ave you know men find me quite good looking, actually.”

“Do they fuck,” Jamie snorts, because he’s willing to bet that there isn’t a single man on Earth, gay or otherwise, who finds Gary Neville in his current state attractive. Maybe in his playing days, when he was all lean muscle and intense glares, but not now. “They’re just queuin’ up to get a piece a’yous, are they?”

“Maybe they are. Not that it’s any of your business, but I actually ‘ave a date tonight.”

“And that’s after he’s had a look at you?”

*

2015.

“Don’t go.”

Gary looks exhausted, pale skin and dark shadows under his eyes. His hair needs a trim, his stubble needs a shave, and he needs to not move to fucking Spain.

“Don’t look so stroppy, Carra. You’re about to become Sky’s number one pundit.”

“Don’t want it. C’mon, Gaz, what’m I gonna do for my Monday mornin’ entertainment without tales of your endless bad dates.”

“Most people just read the news.”

 “What’re you gonna do, you’re bad enough at pullin’ as it is without a language barrier makin’ things harder. It’s like you want to spend the next five months celibate.”

“Yer awfully concerned about my personal life, James, for someone who not two weeks ago was tellin’ me that I needed to, and I quote, ‘spend less time thinkin’ about fit men and more on thinkin’ about fit footballers instead.’”

“And I stand by that.”

*

2016.

Jamie’s changing out of his gym clothes when his conversation with Gary earlier in the week echoes in his mind, the dreamy way Gary had said his arms…

The guy probably doesn’t even train as much as Jamie does, probably just exaggerates because for some reason he’s trying to impress Gary. As if Gary is someone you’d want to impress.

He stands in front of the changing room’s mirror and flexes his bicep, notes with pride the bulging vein that leads up from his elbow. It’s a shame, really, that he has to wear suits when he’s on Sky. He’s sure viewing figures would go up if he was allowed to wear something a little more form fitting, maybe he should pitch it to the wardrobe people.

Gary would probably have a fit, his tends to get in a tizz at the suggestion of any change to the strict set of rules he’s got in his head. Jamie had once tried to wear his suit without a tie (because he’d spilled coffee on the one he’d brought, not that he’d told Gary that), and Gary had screeched at him for a good half an hour about professionalism until he relented and went to wardrobe to find a spare tie he could use.

Imagine if he wore a t-shirt. Gary’s head would probably explode.

All the more reason to do it, really.

#jamie's love language is bullying. obviously. #carraville #drabbles #thanks for the prompt! sorry it took me so long to get to but I am slowly working my way through my inbox again

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 6 (Heartworm)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: K'naan, ft. Adam Levine - Bang Bang

Note: Blood again, but this time it tasted sweet.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

The screams of pain bouncing around the tiled walls were getting a tad annoying. Sometimes it sucked to be both the boss and the hitman.

Vash Saverem. He was known for deriving pleasure from hurting others, but today, he had no goddamn patience for this whiny asshole. Normally, he possessed the patience of a saint; he knew how to bide his time in pursuit of what he wanted most. However, when he was trying to get some real answers, and the dude was too busy shitting his pants and crying to give him a coherent response, Vash's tolerance waned, and his frustration began to surface.

Within the Mafia circles, a proverb echoed: The biggest misfortune for Vash Saverem's enemies was that they were Vash Saverem's enemies.

Poor man.

"This knife is about to go halfway through your eyeball," he issued the warning. "I'm not even going to show you any mercy when I shove it through all the way to your empty brain."

"Fuck, man," he cried. "I already told you; I only visited the port a couple of times. I don't know anything about trades or whatever the hell you're talking about."

Vash concluded coldly, "So, you're useless, is what you're saying." He inched the blade closer to the man's eye. The victim clenched his eyelids shut as if that thin layer of skin, barely a millimeter thick, could shield him from the knife's assault.

Fucking laughable.

"No, no, no," he pleaded desperately, his voice trembling. "I know someone there that might be able to give you more information." Sweat trickled down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His unkempt, greasy gray hair was matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it wasn't actually gray anymore since most of it was painted crimson now. Vash had already cut off one of his ears, along with mercilessly tearing off ten fingernails, severing both Achilles heels, and placing a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that wouldn't allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly. The sheer number of broken bones sustained by the wretched man made it clear that he would never rise or walk away from this place.

"Enough with the crying, start talking," Vash snapped, scraping the knife's tip against the man's closed eyelid. He cringed away from the knife, tears spilling beneath his lashes.

"H-her name is Dominique. She's one of the operation leaders responsible for dispatching men to capture the girls. She-she's a big deal in the port, b-basically runs the whole thing there."

"Dominique, what?" Vash barked.

He sobbed. "I don't know, man!" His voice filled with anguish. "She just referred to herself as Dominique the Cyclops."

What the actual fuck?

"Describe her appearance," Vash demanded with an impatient grin, his words forced through gritted teeth.

He sniffled, his chapped lips tainted with leaking snot. "She's tall, with black hair," he managed to say. "And she wears an eyepatch over her right eye due to an ugly scar."

Vash massaged the back of his neck, groaning as the muscles relaxed. It'd been a long fucking day. Especially since his fucking heart hadn't stopped pounding, he was plagued with the unbending need to find an excuse to see you again—and this monkey face was wasting his time.

Vash's mind felt scorched as if it had been seared in a sizzling skillet. Concentration was a near-impossible feat when the taste of you still lingered on his tongue, and the sensation of you tightly wrapping around his gun remained vividly etched in his memory. You were even more exquisite naked. With the sweet melody of your smoky cries echoing in his head, he would come in his pants if he wasn't this full of rage. Indeed, you had the potential to be a good fucking medicine for his piles of anger.

Crying out loud! Focus dickhead!

"Cool, thanks, man," Vash remarked casually as if he hadn't been torturing him slowly for the past two and a half hours.

The man's breath steadied, and he lifted his head to look up at Vash through disgusting brown eyes brimming with an abundance of hope.

Vash almost laughed.

"Y-You're releasing me?" he asked, staring up at the blond man like a goddamn forsaken dog.

"Sure," Vash chirped. "Come on! Get up and go."

Gazing down at his severed heels, the man was acutely aware that attempting to stand would result in an inevitable loss of balance. "Please, man," he blubbered, "Could you lend me a hand here?"

Vash nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I can do that," he replied, just before swiftly retracting his arm and driving the blade deep into the man's eye socket. He died instantly. The foolish hope hadn't yet vanished from his eyes. Or rather, his one eye. Huh!

"You were involved in Gasback's affairs," Vash declared aloud, though he was no longer capable of hearing him." As if I would spare your life," he finished with a laugh. Retrieving his knife from the eye socket, he cringed at the suction sound, threatening to disrupt his plans for upcoming meals—which was annoying cause he was feeling hungry. While he did enjoy himself a well-executed torture session, he certainly wasn't a jerkwad who got off on the sounds that accompanied it. The gurgles, slurps, and other unsettling noises produced by bodies enduring excruciating pain and the insertion of foreign objects were not a soundtrack he would ever find soothing enough to fall asleep to.

Wait a minute! There was a contradiction within him. Because he found immense pleasure in witnessing your pussy singing for him while his gun glided in and out of you. It was delicious as it was torturous for him. He imposed the punishment upon you, fully aware that it was ethically questionable. It was wrong, he knew it, but he had no fucking shame. After all, he never claimed to be a good man.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted him from his reverie, and he lethargically lifted his head from the red rivulet trickling across the pristine white tiles, its stream leading toward the drain at the room's center. His gaze fixated lazily upon the figure who had just entered.

Damn it! Not again. Not at this moment. Drenched in soiled blood and ravaged by unholy thoughts chewing the shit out of his mind, the last person he wanted to encounter was Bradd, ready to reprimand him for Devil knows what reason.

"Did he prove to be of any use?" Bradd asked, his eyes scanning the scattered droplets of blood adorning Vash's visage while his disheveled hair hung over his forehead, unlike the upright style he was so into.

Exhaling wearily, Vash averted his gaze from his counselor, using the sleeve of his navy hoodie to wipe his face. "Yeah, he provided a name. Dominique the Cyclops. Rings any bells?"

"Nope," Bradd said, popping the p. "But I'll ask around."

"Maintain a low profile." Vash's voice carried a tone of exhaustion; his eyes fixed on the stream of blood flowing from his black gloves.

"Worried about Knives finding out?"

"No. It's none of his business," Vash responded, raising his head. His eyebrows knitted together, creating a deep crease on his forehead.

With each mention of his brother's name, an inferno of annoyance engulfed him, fueled by memories of abuse and shattered trust. He was merely a child, bereft of his mother, and Kni, his sole remaining family, had spared him no mercy with his blades.

The flames of animosity flickered in his eyes, casting a fiery glow upon his features. There was a time he stupidly yearned for reconciliation, for the chance to mend what had been broken, but the intensity of his hatred held him captive.

His gaze lingered upon the scene before him, a stark reminder of the darkness that pervaded their lives. He knew the bridges between them had not only been burned but reduced to smoldering ashes. The hope of brotherhood had withered away, replaced by a vicious reality—they were forever destined to be distant figures, forever intertwined as business partners in a family tainted by treachery.

Bradd's voice barely reached him, distant and faint, as if echoing from the depths of a well. "You've made saving those girls too personal."

 Vash squeezed his eyes shot. "It is too personal."

"But if news spreads, it could potentially impact the business."

"I don't give a fuck about business!" Vash's voice erupted in a furious outburst, his words laced with venom as he forcefully expelled them. Veins throbbed on his temple, his knuckles growing pale as he clenched the knife tightly, the sharp metal biting into his palm. "It was Nick's fucking last wish, and I'll be damned if I don't make it come true," he growled, his voice unwavering.

"Take a breath, boy," Bradd's voice coaxed, tinged with a hint of resignation. " I've never had much success reining you in once you've set your mind on something. My role is simply to remind you of the consequences and express my genuine concern. Besides, since when do you handle dirty jobs yourself?" Bradd inquired cautiously, mindful of avoiding Vash's agitation and any potential stains on his clean shoes as he approached closer, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned down to inspect the lifeless body, and his face quickly twisted with nausea—a soft fucking man. Yet, Vash found relief in Bradd's loyalty, remaining steadfast amidst the dark dominion of a world where boundaries blurred, and power was asserted through ruthless actions.

Vash's anger dissipated quicker than anticipated. Interesting. "You know what they say, right? If you want something done right, do it yourself," he replied, running the stained knife blade along his blue jeans. Each deliberate stroke aimed to purge the weapon of lingering traces of claret. At this point, he had lost count of the clothes he had to get rid of because he had started to resent the smell of that shit—a less-than-ideal habit for someone viewed as a monster.

A monster.

Tsk!

This wasn't exactly breaking news.

He was used to it.

But the fact that you referred to him in such a way was a pain in the ass, perhaps because he had grown accustomed to being addressed by that name by people whose sins towered as high as Mount Fuji. Yet, when you, as someone nearly innocent, employed that word as well, something unsettling stirred within him that was definitely not pleasant, and now, he couldn't get it out of his goddamn mind. You had become a persistent distraction—a brain worm. Metaphorically speaking, of course, not the dog-killing kind.

"You don't need to shoulder the entire workload alone. Allow Livio and me to help you with this. Your burden—"

"I was bored," Vash interrupted. "Stop digging my shits. Nothing good gonna come out of it."

"I can't agree more," Bradd said, dragging a chair to a considerable distance from the stinky corpse and taking a seat. He crossed one leg over the other and fixed his gaze upon Vash as though he were a patient under surveillance in an asylum. Well. In a way, here was like an asylum.

Once Vash had sheathed the knife, he removed the gloves and casually tossed them onto the deceased's chest. Then, reaching into his hoodie pocket, he retrieved a cigarette. Rolling the tension out of his neck, he ignited the cigar and drew a deep breath. The tobacco filled his lungs, providing an instant sense of calm.

"What are you doing here, Bradd?" Vash asked.

"Digging your shits," Bradd said and chuckled.

"Haha, quite the comedian now, are we?" Vash reclined, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted and dissipated in the air. This shit, this acrid residue, still felt foreign, like swallowing an ashtray. It was a far cry from the flavor he truly longed for. He didn't want this permanently residing in his throat but rather savor it on Nick's tongue.

Well. It's unfulfilled dreams that keep us alive.

"No, seriously." Bradd's tone carried a sense of urgency. "What've you done to that girl?"

Upon hearing the reference to "you," Vash's eyebrows arched upward in surprise, partially interrupting the steady flow of smoke from his lips. A brief cough threatened to escape his throat, but he exerted control and suppressed it. Nevertheless, he couldn't hide the subtle gleam of delight that flickered in his eyes, a spark Bradd keenly noticed.

In an effort to divert attention, Vash lowered his head, using his forefinger to tap the cigarette, resulting in a shower of ash falling upon the fractured leg of the man beneath him. "Why are you asking?" he said, careful not to reveal any emotions or intentions.

"Rollo informed me that she likely hadn't eaten for three days since he returned with all the food untouched," Bradd recounted.

Vash pursed his lips as he found refuge in the concealment provided by his hair today. It appeared that you were not easily tamed. Each scratch he left upon you only seemed to sharpen your claws, fueling you with a desire to retaliate with even greater strength. Just like a wild mustang, you adamantly resisted being subdued. Rather than yielding to compromise, you would battle fiercely until the bitter end, refusing to be trapped within a cage, even if it meant facing the risk of perishing within its confines. You were his wild pet, reserving your fears and moans exclusively for your master. Perfect.

"Why are you sharing this with me?" Vash asked, seeming unbothered while bothered. He ran his hands through his hair, fingers pausing at the rough undercut. "Rather than wasting my time with this nonsense, focus on resolving the issue." He tilted his head and fixed a feigned disinterested gaze upon the counselor.

"I tried talking to her, but she just kept staring at the wall," Bradd disclosed, leaning forward to discern any answers from Vash's expression, only to find none.

Oops! It appeared that the opposite had occurred. He pushed you too much and broke your tiny claws. Weren't you a little mouse nested in the clutches of a ruthless cat now?

"Vash?" Bradd called out, only for him to realize that the flame of the cigarette had been burning his finger without him even noticing. He swiftly discarded it, tossing it to the floor and extinguishing it under his boot.

"You're jeopardizing everything to rescue random girls for Wolfwood while you've already taken one for yourself and are breaking her every day," Bradd pressed on. "Don't you think—"

"That's different," Vash croaked, his voice filled with conflict. "She's his daughter."

"She didn't have a say in it," Bradd calmly stated. "I don't think Wolfwood would want you to torture an innocent person."

Vash's head jerked upward in a sudden motion, his eyes widening in shock. How dare Bradd presume to understand what his beloved Nick would desire or not, as if he knew him better. As if he could fully grasp the devastating pain that tore Vash apart from within. And what harm would come if he were to inflict a glimpse of that pain on others?

A surge of anger coursed through Vash's veins, tempting him to grab Bradd by the collar and unleash a torrent of furious screams, forcing him to taste a tiny morsel of the burden he so eagerly offered to assist with, for it was a burden that was bitter as hell, sadly capable of shattering anyone but Vash himself. He didn't care if the world burned in his wake; if only it could provide even the slightest relief from this unbearable pain. However, deep down, he knew that Bradd's words held a kernel of truth. Nick had never harmed anyone and always strived to convince Vash to stay away from it as well. Yet, here he was, drowned knee-deep in the very mess Nick had wished to spare him from.

The realization made Vash's fingers tremble, but he tightly balled his hands into fists, containing the quivering inside. Did Nick despise him for the actions he had undertaken in the name of honoring his memory? It seemed likely. Look at him. He had not only caused harm in the earthly realm but somehow found a way to cause pain to someone on the other side—somewhere Nick used to call Eden.

Despite his lack of belief in heaven or any existence beyond, a flicker of hope persisted within him, for he wished for its reality because, in such a place, Nick would find unbridled happiness. A happiness that surpassed what he could ever offer. Even though he wouldn't be able to meet him there.

Thieves Don't go to heaven. The teachers had taught him.

And he was a thief. He had stolen Wolfwood's name and besmirched it with his own misdeeds.

Vash released a worn-out sigh and thought tears streaked down his cheeks, but he wasn't crying.

He was just tired.

Something was missing. Or rather, someone. His beloved. His demise. His alibi.

Emptiness consumed him like there was nothing inside of him but this broken heart, the only organ left in this hollow shell. The echoes of screams reverberated within him. He felt the thumping resonating throughout his skeleton.

He had a heart, claimed science, but he was a monster, said everybody—including you. And he knew it all too well. He knew what he'd done. He wasn't asking for sympathy. But could it be possible that you were mistaken? For if he truly were a monster, wouldn't Nick know it? Then why he used to call him his angel…

Yes. He was angry and vicious and vengeful, familiar with blind rage and bloodlust and a need for vindication. But what about the hatred that was like poison, an unrelenting punch to the gut, an injustice that had been injected directly into his bloodstream and had paralyzed him from the inside? It stifled his breath and stuffed itself into his clothes, gradually decaying him in the shadows of his own hatred.

He didn't know what he was or what he might be. However, he knew he would never want to hurt Nick. Never. Ever. Never, ever again.

He was tired—so utterly tired that he wanted to forget he wasn't allowed to wish for things anymore, and he found himself wishing for one thing that would dispel the grip of his hatred: a friend.

You a child, Tongari? Why do you need a friend? You have me. Am I not enough for you? Oh, right. I am dead, because you couldn't save me.

Rising to his feet, Vash paid no attention to Bradd's presence, his focus fully consumed by his inner turmoil, as he walked toward the door, paying no heed to anything.

"Thank you," Vash uttered, pausing in the doorway, his voice saturated with self-reproach. "I'll handle it. Don't worry." He turned his head toward Bradd, wearing a blank stare with a hint of a smile that didn't reach his eyes, instead like a vat of acid seeped into his skin. Then he disappeared in the corridor, but a subtle but palpable piece of hatred seemed to detach from him and fell silently on the floor.

*

Sadness was a strange sort of thing.

It stealthily approached, silent and motionless, taking its place beside you in the darkness, gently caressing your hair as you slumbered. It enveloped your very being, squeezing so tightly that breathing became arduous. It planted lies in your heart and nestled beside you at night, draining light from every crevice. It remained a steadfast companion, holding your hand only to forcefully pull you down when you attempted to rise.

It'd been over four days since Vash was here.

After he left your room and your screams settled down, you huddled in a corner, contemplating your very existence. Sleep eluded you during the night, and all awake, you doubted. You doubted. You doubted.

Did you?

Didn't you?

Should you?

Why wouldn't you?

Even when you felt prepared to release its grip, break free, and be brand-new, sadness stayed with you as an old friend. It stood beside you in the mirror, locking its eyes with yours, daring you to live without it. You couldn't find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you wouldn't be free, never free, never ever free from it.  

Sometimes, it just wouldn't let go.

Just like Vash.

"How're you doing?"

Your eyes blinked rapidly, and a gasp escaped your lips as you squinted at his stature. There he stood, in a snug purple shirt, paired with his usual dark pants and meticulously spiked blond hair. Today, however, he had decided to forgo his usual accessories—no holster, no arm garter, or any visible indication of weaponry. Perhaps he believed he wouldn't need them facing a broken person like you.

Sadly, he was right.

Vash whisked into the room like he treaded air for a living. No one accompanied him. "You look lovely," he complimented.

Sitting on your bed, wearing an old, plane shirt and pants of Gods know who, you had leaned against the headboard; your exhaustion and the toll of sleepless nights evident in the dark circles that marred the delicate skin under your eyes. Your hair, disheveled and untamed, cascaded in disarray, its strands haphazardly draping across your face, mirroring the neglect you had endured. Wrapped loosely around your waist, a blanket served as a feeble shield against the chill that permeated the room. Vulnerable. Miserable. Far from anything that could be described as lovely. Fuck you!

"Hey," he said pleasantly. You could tell he was trying to insert warmth into his presence, but it felt like sticking your hand into a fireplace that hadn't been used in centuries.

Closing the gulf, he moved closer, his woodsy cologne enveloping your senses as he intruded upon your space. You wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of your no-no square, but you couldn't imagine that going over well. You had learned your lesson. Yet, try as you might, you couldn't stop your limbs from stiffening and your shoulders from hiking up an inch. Your fingers twitched with the need to curl into fists, but you refrained from doing it, too.

Contrary to your expectations, he maintained a noticeable distance as he settled into a seat beside you, leaning against the headboard. His body heat would do more for you than the blanket ever could, but his shoulders were too far. Sadly. And it caused something in your joints to ache with an acute yearning, a desperate craving you'd never permit yourself to indulge. Traitor stupid body.

He glanced at you, and you rolled it into a little ball in defense. "Is it too cold in here? I can tell them to adjust the temperature if you want."

You turned to meet his eyes with anger and regret it immediately. There were less than 4 feet between you, and you couldn't move because, in his presence, your body only knew how to freeze. Every muscle and every movement became tense as if encased in ice. Each vertebra in your spine felt like a frozen block. You held your breath, your eyes widening, locked, and caught in the intensity of his gaze. You couldn't tear your eyes away. You didn't know how to retreat.

Oh. Gods.

His eyes.

The blue moons in his eyes were shimmering with an emotion you couldn't put your finger on. Only when he averted his gaze did you realize he looked sad. Melancholic. And you wanted to know why, as if somehow his suffering might offer peace to yours. Yet, the words remained trapped within your throat, unwilling to escape for fear of the consequences that may follow.

In a cautious, subdued tone, he uttered, "You don't want to talk to me." You fought to catch your breath. "It's understandable," he added, his voice tinged with resignation. "It's fair," he continued. "I wouldn't stand myself if I could." He dropped his voice. Dropped his eyes.

You turned your head, drawing the blanket tightly around your shoulders until you were cocooned in the tremors that wouldn't stop terrorizing your body. His presence reignited the trauma you had endured, unleashing a torrent of distressing memories. You couldn't make yourself still. It felt like shards of ice were cutting through your skin, horror clotting your veins. Clutching the blanket with a tight grip, you feared it might unravel.

Just as you were about to stand up with the intention of seeking solace in the bathroom, his voice reached your ears, causing you to pause.

"Don't go," he whispered, eyes on you. "Please," he said. "Sit here. Stay with me. You don't even have to say anything."

Some crazed, confused part of your mind entertained the thought of sitting beside him, itching to be close to him. It was as if a connection had been forged between you, born out of shared pain and despair, and the further you distanced yourself from him, the more this bond felt strained, provoking a deeper ache within you.

You must be insane. Still, you remained rooted in your position, perched at the edge of the bed. However, you chose to turn your back on him.

This time, you wouldn't let him—

His hand was suddenly on your back.

You flinched.

But as his touch seared through the layers of fabric, a scorching heat consumed your skin, causing you to inhale frantically as if your lungs had temporarily failed. You were caught in colliding currents of confusion, so desperate, so desperate, so desperate to be close. So desperate to be far away. You didn't know how to move away from him. For fuck's sake. You didn't want to move away from him. You didn't want him to know you were afraid of him.

He whispered your name, his voice hoarse yet so soft. His arms were stronger than all the bones in your body. He pulled your swaddled figure close to his chest, and you shattered into countless fragments of raw emotion, each piece piercing your heart. And amidst the shards of pain, a transformation occurred. The fragments melted into drops of warm honey, their soothing touch caressing the scars etched upon your soul, scars that he himself had bestowed upon you.

The only barrier between you was the blanket, and he tugged you closer, tighter, stronger until you could hear him whispering soothing notes of a melody near your ear. Familiar one. You had heard them echoing through time. However, like trying to grasp the sun through water, the memory associated with them remained out of reach.

Then, he touched your hair.

Your lips tightened, your eyes closing on their own. You were too tired, too weak to resist. You walked into this house with your fire lit, and within a mere two months, the proverbial fingers had pinched the flame, leaving only a trail of smoke behind.

His hands, encased in gloves, tenderly glided through your hair, his soft touch reminiscent of a child playfully engaging with a cherished doll. Each stroke of his fingertips traced delicate routes, leaving a lingering warmth in their wake. Your lips trembled, your heart heavy as you struggled to comprehend the enigma. Why was he doing this to you?

He carefully gathered your hair, and you nearly choked when he began braiding it. How the fuck! He skillfully wove the strands together with each precise movement, creating an intricately crafted braid. Leaning over, he reached for a wristband from the nightstand and gently secured the end of the braid with it. The sheer disbelief of the situation tempted you to twist around like a dog chasing its tail, wanting to witness this surreal scene with your own eyes. However, you resisted the urge, choosing to remain still.

Bastard of a man.

There was no denying that he could be a great father one day, but given the tumultuous life he led, luckily, he would never live that much, and even though the thought scared you, there was a part of you that wanted to have the privilege of seeing his miserable end.

Or at least, you believed you desired it.

The beats humming deep within his chest and the steel of his scent around your body severed ties to tension in your limbs. His warmth dissolved the icicle barriers that had kept you suspended, causing you to thaw from the inside out. As your eyes fluttered rapidly, they eventually succumbed to the moment's weight, closing shut and allowing silent tears to stream down your face. Why weren't you screaming? Why were you letting him have his way with you? You didn't know.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You'll be okay."

Unspoken between you was the understanding that truth, an unforgiving and possessive mistress, never granted respite. Being "okay" was an elusive concept, forever out of reach. His actions to you left an indelible mark, ensuring that you would never fully recover.

You felt a swelling in your throat as you mustered the strength to mutter, "You ruined my life."

With agony all around, you sobbed, and he didn't do anything to calm you. He just remained ominously silent. He didn't say a single thing as you hurled awful, horrible insults at him and accused him of being too coldhearted to understand what it was like to grieve. You didn't even realize he'd turned you toward himself and had pulled you into his arms until you were nestled against his chest, and … you didn't object. You didn't fight it at all. You clung to him because you needed this warmth. Because it was painfully familiar. Because you'd missed feeling strong arms around you. And he just held you. He smoothed back your hair and ran a gentle hand down your back, and you heard his heart beat a strange, crazy beat that sounded far too fast to be human. His arms were wrapped entirely around you—a refuge and trap.

It took every broken filament in your being to untangle yourself from his embrace. It was painful, but you did it because you knew it was necessary, that it was for your own well-being. Each step you took felt like invisible forks pierced your heart, causing you to stumble in your retreat. The blanket snagged your foot, nearly causing you to lose your balance, but just before you fell, Vash reached out to you.

"Love—"

"Don't call me that!" Your breaths were shallow and difficult to swallow, your fingers trembling uncontrollably. "Just don't." Your eyes were trained on the door. His hand extended towards your arm as he rose to his feet, but you pulled away and walked resolutely in the opposite direction.

His unwavering gaze fixated upon you. Unblinking. His eyes traced a path from your face, down your neck, and along your arms, until they halted at your waist. You instinctively followed his stare, only to discover that your movements had lifted your shirt, revealing your stomach. And you suddenly understood why he was staring. The memory of his kisses trailing along your scars, his hands exploring your waist, your bare legs, the insides of your thighs, his gun sliding in your—

You found yourself clenching your fists tightly, willing the physical pain to distract from the memories carved in your mind. You didn't want to remember. You didn't want to think about those things anymore.

"I'm not going to hurt you—"

"Stop lying to me." Your voice was even, flat; your limbs numb, amputated. "If you're here to take it out on me, just do it already. Don't sugarcoat your torture. Don't play games. Just do it and then walk the fuck out."

Through clenched teeth, he responded, "I'm not here for that."

"Then why are you here?" you asked carefully, slowly.

"Can you sit—"

"If you're not here to torture me, then just go. I have nothing to talk to you." The wounds were still fresh. No need to rub salt into them.

You heard his hard exhalation of breath. He laughed a bitter laugh. "Practically, I'm the only one visiting you, and you want to shut me out?"

You closed your eyes and took a deliberate breath. With a composed tone, you responded, "Yes."

He advanced a few steps in your direction, causing fear to surge through you. In a panic, you screamed, "Don't come any closer! Don't touch me!"

A few seconds of silence joined the conversation. Then, breaking the stillness, he uttered wickedly, "Maybe I want to touch you."

Feelings of disbelief tore through your heart like hole punches, leaving behind a painful void. Temptation whispered in your ear, deceiving you to embrace recklessness, to give in to the aching desperation for something you knew you could never have. In an act of self-preservation, you turned your back on him, hoping to shield yourself from your swirling emotions and let lies spill out of your lips. "I don't want you to."

He made a harsh sound. "I disgust you that much?"

Caught off guard by his audacity, you swiftly spun around, almost forgetting your composed demeanor. His dark ocean eyes didn't leave you, his face hardened, and his jaw clenched. His fingers flexed by his sides. As you looked at him, his gaze pierced through you like two buckets of rainwater—deep, fresh, and clear, brimming with hurt.

"You... you traumatized me!" The words escaped your lips, laden with pain.

He tilted his head, his voice sharp with a hint of sarcasm. "Only because I used a gun to make you come, not to make you bleed,"  he snipped.

You snarled, determined to reject his attempt to minimize the impact of his actions. However, his expression shifted, his posture straightening as he spoke with a hint of remorse. "If I possessed the power of magic and could turn back time, I'd do many things differently," he admitted. "But I must inform you that I lack such ability."

You tightened your lips at the condescension in his tone. "I cannot erase or undo the past." Ignoring your request, he did come closer, crowding you against the wall. He inclined his head, bringing his forehead into gentle contact with yours, the tips of your noses brushing lightly. "Let me make amends," he whispered, a plea for a chance to repair the damage he had caused.

Your face was cast in a neutral mold, and your arms and legs filled with plaster. You felt nothing. You were nothing. You were empty of everything. In every sense. You would never move. You were staring at your toes. You'd stare at it forever. Lost in your thoughts, you lacked the will to fight when he gently tipped your chin upward, his finger guiding your gaze toward him.

He was…he was…

His eyes and lips blurred and faded into insignificance; you subconsciously reached out, grasping his arm for support. The outside world seemed distant instantly as if transported to another dimension beyond your reach. Gradually, your eyelids grew heavy, closing in surrender. Your mind drifted, carried away by the thoughts that mercilessly kicked you in the heart.

He was fast to catch you before hitting the floor.

*

The ceiling was fading in and out of focus.

Your head weighed heavily upon your neck, causing a haze to settle over your vision. Your heart labored, burdened with the strain of unease. A distinct taste of panic lingered somewhere beneath your tongue, evoking a sense of urgency and fear you were fighting to remember where it came from. In a bid to regain control, you made an effort to sit up, only to be confounded by the fact that you found yourself lying down.

A pair of hands rested gently on your shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

Vash peered down at you. In that instant, a rush of flashbacks flared within your eyes, causing them to blaze intensely. Fucking hell! You had fallen into his arms. For the second time. "Well, at least you're awake," he sighed. "You had me worried."

You tried to control your trembling limbs. "Get your hands off of me."

Vash erupted into a boisterous, full-bodied laugh, shook his head, and smiled at you in the way you'd only ever seen once before, looking at you like you were the sweetest thing he'd ever decided to eat.

Those dimples.

He laughed and laughed and laughed, his eyes brilliant, gleaming even in this dim light. He laughed until it was just a hard breath until it became a gentle sigh and dissolved into an amused smile. And then he grinned at you until he was grinning to himself. His eyes shifted downward, drawn to your hand, which lay limp at your side. He hesitated a bit before his fingers delicately brushed the soft, thin skin covering your knuckles.

You didn't breathe. You didn't speak. You didn't even move. He was cautious, waiting to see if you'd pull away—an action you knew you should take. You knew you should, but you didn't. So he took your hand, studied it, and ran his fingers along the lines of your palm, the creases at your joints, the sensitive spot between your thumb and index finger. His touch was so tender, so delicate, and gentle, and it felt so good it hurt; it actually hurt. It was too much for your heart to handle right now.

You snatched back your hand in a jerky, awkward motion, face flushing, pulse tripping.

Vash remained unfazed, showing no signs of flinching. He didn't look up. He didn't even seem surprised. He only stared at his now empty hands.

"Leave me alone," you managed to utter. You were shaking and trying to push the tears back but shrinking into nothingness. Because you were thinking this must be it. This must be your ultimate retribution, a punishment you probably deserved. "I hate you—"

"So much passion." He looked so calm, so genuinely amused. He stared at you with eyes softer than you ever expected them to be. He took a shallow breath and leaned closer, his face shrouded in shadow. Uncertainty gripped you, leaving you at a loss for what to do. All you knew was that you didn't want to be alone with him. Not now, not ever again.

"I said leave me alone," you pleaded, your voice trembling. "I don't want you here. Please, just go!"

"I can't just abandon you in this state," he protested, his voice filled with genuine concern. "You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

Vash sat near you on the bed's edge, and you immediately crossed your legs to avoid touching him. "Here," he offered, extending his hand towards the plate on the nightstand. "I brought you some donuts."

As you attempted to seize the opportunity to sit up, your face unexpectedly drew close to his. Caught off guard, you inhaled sharply, causing a stifled cough to build up in your throat. His glassy blue eyes glinted and locked with yours.

He smiled.

"Are you not hungry?" His words dripped with sweetness. His gloved hand lightly grazed your wrist, evoking a visceral reaction that made you automatically recoil, almost spraining it in your haste to create distance between you.

"No, thank you." You were so hungry you could eat this room.

He licked his bottom lip into a broader smile. "Don't mistake foolishness for bravery, love. I know you haven't eaten anything in days."

Something in your patience snapped. "I'd rather die than eat any of the food in your house," you declared firmly.

"I'm happy that you're talking back again." He tilted his neck. Fucking maze of tattoos and veins. Why were you staring at them? "Are you thirsty?"

You didn't know if it was because you couldn't think straight or because you were genuinely confused, but you were struggling to reconcile the stark contrast in Vash's personality. It perplexed you that after all the crazy shits of the past weeks, he now sat before you, offering you a glass of water. What had caused this apparent change in him?

You raised your hands and examined your fingers intently as if they were foreign to you. "I don't understand."

He cocked his brows, observing you as though you might've sustained a significant head injury.

"I simply asked whether you were thirsty. It shouldn't be difficult to understand," he stated with a pause. "Drink this," he insisted.

Taking the glass into your hand, you stared at it, then shifted your attention toward him, carefully examining his face before your eyes wandered around the room, tracing the lines of the walls and the network of pipes. You must be insane.

Vash sighed. "I'm not sure, but I think you fainted. And I think you should probably eat something, though I'm not entirely sure about that, either." He paused. "You've probably starved yourself for too long. My mistake."

"What the hell do you want?"

He evaded the question, diverting his response. "I usually eat alone," Vash said, his voice cutting through the layers of your resistance like a sharp spear. "But I've come to the conclusion you and I should be more thoroughly acquainted, considering the significant amount of time we'll be spending together."

"I told you I am not hungry."

"This is not an option, love." You looked at him and realized he was very, very serious. "You're not permitted to starve yourself to death. You don't eat enough, and I need you to be healthy. You are forbidden from engaging in self-destructive behavior or causing harm to yourself. You're too valuable to me."

"I am not your slave to order around," you retorted. He abruptly set the plate down on the nightstand, and you were taken aback by the fact that it didn't shatter upon impact. Coming closer, he cleared his throat, a gesture that scared you.

"This process can be so much easier if you simply cooperate," he said, enunciating each word precisely. A hint of amusement played on his lips as he continued, "Out of all people on this planet, you're stuck with me." He allowed a momentary pause. "Everyone you've ever known has forsaken you. Where is your sister, I wonder? You would go to great lengths to protect her, yet she hasn't even filed a missing person's report for you. You know why? Because she doesn't even know you've been kidnapped. Not only your father hasn't filled her in, but she hasn't even suspected why the fuck your phone has remained off throughout this whole ordeal. I don't know. Maybe she knows about your situation, and your father is preventing her from taking any action. I cannot say for certain, but don't try to convince me that she was incapable of going to a police station for her beloved sister. At the same time, you chose to wiggle beneath me to safeguard her ass from any hypothetical harm. Wake up and face the truth, love: Your so-called friends have also abandoned you to rot here."

A hundred hands slapped your face. There was nothing left. You'd never expected anything from your friends based on their fear of your father, but now you realized that somewhere, deep within, you had been nurturing a small glimmer of hope that Amelia would somehow find a way to help you. Somewhere, deep down, you were still clinging to possibility.

And now that was gone, too.

"And yet—" He laughed openly now. "You persist in making me the bad guy." He met your eyes. "I'm trying to help you. I'm giving you an opportunity no one would ever offer you. I'm willing to give you the power to take your revenge. You and I can make your father suffer for what he did to you, to me. So, I ask you, why do you hesitate?"

He was wrong. He was so wrong. He was more wrong than an upside-down rainbow. But everything he said was right.

Drawing in slightly, he spoke, "Let's assume I really am a monster, but don't dare to hate me so quickly," he continued. "You might enjoy this situation much more than you anticipated. Fortunately for you, I am willing to be patient." He grinned, leaning back again, and added, "Although it certainly doesn't hurt that you have a pretty face."

You were dripping shame on the sheets. An unwelcome stain. He was a liar and a horrible, horrible, horrible human being, and you didn't know if you cared because he was right, or because it was so wrong, or because you were so desperate for semblance of something in this fucked up situation.

"You and I are not as different as you would like to believe," he proclaimed, his grin so cocky it stirred an urge within you to twist it with your fist.

"You and I are not as similar as you might wish," you spat, your nails piercing into the flesh of your palm.

"You're far more stubborn than I thought you'd be, love."

"I did whatever you asked me. I didn't kill myself!" you asserted, lifting your eyes to face his unwavering stare. You were suddenly startled by the immense power his gaze held.

"You didn't do that for me. You did it for that pathetic sister of yours," he said quietly. Bitterly.

You nearly laughed out loud as you looked away. "Why are you even here? You haven't answered me yet." Your tone was like a raining venom.

"I won't answer your question if you won't look at me when I speak to you."

You turned your head but still refused to face him directly. "You murdered people and made me watch their deaths. You tortured me. You humiliated me." Swallowing hard, you continued, "The very sight of you sickens me." Inhaling sharply, your nostrils flared as you struggled to contain your emotions.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

A slow, unsettling smile crept across his face. He touched his gloved fingers to your cheek and tilted your head up, catching your chin in his grip when you flinched away. "You're absolutely delicious when you're angry."

He bit his bottom lip, and you anchored your hands to prevent yourself from falling onto the bed. You knew if it happened, he would be on top of you again, and the thought left you breathless, unsure of your desires. "Too bad my taste is poisonous for your palate." You were vibrating in disgust from head to toe.

"Who says that?" he mimicked, feigning a pout. "I happen to think you taste like honey, and I just so happen to have a sweet tooth."

"You're sick, you're so sick—"

He laughed and released your chin only to take inventory of your throat. His eyes drew a lazy trail down the length of your face. He wasn't squeezing enough to choke you, but you wouldn't forgive yourself if you allowed him to force anything upon you again.

You curled your fist and swung it back into his face; without hesitation, you drove your elbow forcefully into his nose. His head jerked back just in time, your elbow striking true but hardly enough to be gifted with a bloody nose. He let go, granting you a renewed sense of liberation, and it felt like you could finally breathe.

He chuckled, deep and low, as he withdrew. The bastard didn't look the least bit ruffled, but you chose not to dwell on that.

"There you go. That was really good, love." He couldn't contain the emotion in his fucking face. Pride. Amusement and something more profound and far beautiful than the shade of his eyes.

"Finally!" Vash clasped his hands together as if to congratulate himself. "I was wondering when you gonna strike back again. I've been waiting for the fire I know must be eating away at you. Savage little mouse, you're buried in hatred, aren't you? Anger? Frustration? Itching to do something?"

"No."

"Of course you are," he affirmed, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You're just like me."

"I hate you more than you could ever comprehend," you declared, distancing yourself from him both physically and emotionally.

He brought himself close to you as if he was drawn to you like a magnet, only capable of maintaining a significant space between you. "We'll make an exceptional team."

"We're nothing. You are nothing to me!" With each harsh syllable, you spat out the words, anger dripping from your every utterance.

With a smile gracing his lips, slowly, deliberately, he peeled off his gloves, revealing each finger with a measured slowness. Despite the simplicity of the act, it stirred something within you. They were just hands, nothing more, and yet you sensed a profound meaning behind his gesture.

It was as if he intended to convey that he was willing to set aside the hatred that had once consumed him, symbolically shedding the layers of hatred.

Entranced by the unfolding scene, you watched as his hands tenderly cupped your cheeks, causing a wave of fear to ripple through you. However, to your astonishment, his touch inexplicably brought forth an unexpected sense of tranquility instead of intensifying your apprehension. A fleeting stillness settled over you as you realized this was the first time you had physically felt the warmth and touch of his hands upon your skin.

And they weren't soft as hands of a boy. He had the rough hands of a man. The gentle touch of an illicit affair. Gone was the man with guns and bullets. These hands treasuring you couldn't have held a weapon, couldn't have spilled any blood. They were perfect and kind, never touched by death.

Your gaze wandered, fixating on the stitch on his right thumb, an unspoken testament to a past injury. Questions swirled in your mind, wondering why someone had attempted to cut his finger in such a way. A glimpse of a black tattoo peeked out from beneath his sleeve's edge.

His lips hovered dangerously close to yours, causing you to gulp and grip his wrists, trying to stop him. Suddenly, he jerked, and your fingers inadvertently brushed against the remnants of old scars on his left wrist. Horizontal and straight scratches. Not one. Not two. Too many.

He had cut his wrist.

Confusion furrowed your brow as you wrestled with the heaviness of these newfound revelations. How many untold stories remained shrouded beneath the layers of fabric that cloaked his past? Who was he? Why… Questions you would never ask.

Your eyes willingly remained locked onto his, unable to look away. The pain had sculptured him into the person he had become, and his sharp edges had not only wounded others but gifted the deepest cuts upon himself.

What a divine disaster.

"Dear, sweet, beautiful girl," he murmured, a mixture of awe and curiosity. "How did you endure it all and retain more of your humanity than I did?" His scarred thumb brushed your jawline. "You really have become a crybaby, love. You're pitying me, aren't you? Don't you think that, do you?"

You checked your pockets for spare words and sentences, but you found none, not an adverb, not a preposition, or even a dangling participle because there didn't exist a single response to such an outlandish question.

As his left hand let go of your cheek, a chill replaced the warmth, prompting a desire to protest. You were surprised how you were getting used to his touch this quickly.

He picked up one of the donuts from the plate and held it under your nose. "You hardly have eaten anything in the last four days. That can't possibly be good."

You remained silent, not opening your mouth. He let out a sigh, his gaze studying your eyes with such intensity that it momentarily disarmed you. The words you wanted to say and scream seemed to have slipped away, leaving you bare before him. "You're going to eat, and then we'll talk," he stated firmly, his turquoise eyes never abandoning yours.

"Worried that I've poisoned the food?" he said, chuckling. It wasn't the reason you didn't eat, but you watched as he took a bite of the donut, swallowing it without even chewing. Then, with a contented glimmer forming in the corners of his eyes, he turned the donut towards you, right where he had taken a bite himself. "If it didn't kill me, it won't harm you either."

When you still resisted eating, his other hand shifted from your cheek to your nape, gripping it firmly. "We're not playing house, love," he stated with a hint of frustration, pulling your hair back slightly. "If you want answers, you'll have to eat." He held the donut close to your lips again while his thumb caressed your earlobe.

Stubbornness began to feel futile, a foolish endeavor. You knew you were never destined to win against him anyway. Swallowing your pride, you reluctantly took a small bite of the donut, and as you did, you noticed a smile forming on his lips.

"How is it?" he asked, his enthusiasm unwarranted. "Is it to your liking?"

You nodded, not deceiving him. The donut honestly tasted incredible; whether due to your hunger or not, it didn't matter. Ignoring any reservations, you reached up and took the donut from his hand, taking a larger bite this time.

He leaned back and watched you eat. The scrutiny made you uncomfortable, particularly when it came to eating, but he had made it his mission to challenge all of your boundaries. Protesting was pointless. He placed the plate with two more donuts in front of you. "I can bring more if you want. You just need to ask, but I think eating light foods is better for now. Your stomach might hurt."

As you glanced at him while picking up the second donut, a serene smile graced his face, but his blue eyes were still missing their sparkle. The baby blue color was lifeless; it was your first clue that something had broken within him, too, since your last encounter.

"Do you have any particular meal in mind?" he inquired, his eyes widening as you picked up the third donut, but then they turned wary and resigned as if this had reminded him of something he no longer had. Sorrow lined the edges of his lids, and the sight would forever haunt you.

You shook your head as a no. To be frank, you could devour an elephant at that very time.

He grabbed a napkin and gently wiped the corner of your mouth. It should have disturbed you, but if he was willing to clean up the mess he had made of you, you wanted to watch him try. It seemed like a win-win situation for both of you.

With his defenses now down, you resolved to take every chance. "Let me go," you said, the words running out of your mouth before you had a chance to choose them carefully.

"No." Except for the sadness in his tone, his voice didn't falter. He let out a weary sigh and lowered his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Ask me anything but not that."

Your lips filled with a touch of frustration, and you asked, "Why not?"

"Because I can't. I just..." he trailed off, clenching the napkin as he tugged at his fingers, clearly struggling to find the right words. He cleared his throat, briefly averting his gaze to the ceiling before meeting your eyes again. "Because I need you."

"You need me for your grand revenge!" you exclaimed, stopping eating.

"Don't you want it, too?" he asked, tilting his head.

"How dare you—"

He burst into laughter, the sound resonating loudly. "You're free to lie to yourself if it makes you feel better."

Your hands started shaking, and you gripped them tightly, trying to steady yourself. "You don't know anything about me."

"I have a ledger binder filled with your info. I know everything there is to know, love," he retorted. Smug asshole.

You clenched your jaw, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you slammed the half-eaten donut back onto the plate. Dropping your head into your hands, you tried to stay calm. Took a steadying breath.

"At the very least," you gasped, the words catching in your throat like a thorn. It was hard to believe what you were about to say. "Allow me to leave this room. I don't want to spend all my hours trapped here."

"If I let you out, what will you do for me?" His eyes were deceitful.

"Nothing."

He shook his head. Your response was not satisfactory to him. "That won't do. I may consider your proposition only if you agree to a condition."

You clutched the sheets tightly with your fist, bracing yourself for his reply. "What do you want?"

The smile grew more prominent than before. "That's a dangerous question," he said, a hint of intrigue and mischief in his tone.

"What's your condition?" you clarified, impatient. Motherfucker!

"Be my friend."

"WHAT?" Your gasp was so loud it caught in your throat before racing around the room.

"I want you to be my friend," he reiterated, his voice steady, his eyebrows taut, tense.

"I don't want to be your fuckbuddy!" You exploded. "I won't let you—"

"Screw sex," he spat. "I want you to be my friend—a genuine friendship—"

"No—" you protested, vigorously shaking your head; it left you feeling dizzy. "No. Never. You're crazy—I won't—" Your words stumbled and collided as you struggled to articulate your refusal.

"You will, actually."

"I will NOT—" you vehemently declared, but he glared at you. There was no other way to describe it. You could almost say he hated you right now. Hated you for denying yourself this opportunity.

"We have to … work … at one point or another," he stated, making an effort to moderate his voice. "Even if you were to reject my condition, I still have a reason to justify keeping you alive, love. Originally, you were kidnapped so I could end your life and deliver your deceased body to Gasback. But as you already know, a change in the plans has occurred. I require another purpose: for you to become my ally," he explained.

"You expect me not only to remain here but also to help you in your twisted schemes? Are you—"

"Yes," he replied, a smile spreading across his face. "Forgive me if I'm being direct, but you made it clear that you're a big girl and don't require me to sugarcoat stuff for you."

"You—you—" you sputtered.

"You have a debt to repay. After all, I played a part in rescuing you from that man you call a father and the other psycho I used to call my brother," he asserted and set his gaze at you. "Maybe I understand you, love. Maybe it's time for you to place your trust in me. Maybe you should come to terms with the fact that I am now your savior."

He looked at you, and for a moment, he seemed almost human. For a moment, you wanted to believe him. For a moment, you wanted to sit on the floor and cry out the ocean lodged in your throat.

"Love," he whispered, his hands tenderly grasping your shoulders. "You don't have to pretend to be nice anymore. You have the power to bring him down for all the pain he has caused to you, your mother, and—"

"I don't want to bring down anyone," you told him firmly. "I don't desire to hurt—"

"But he deserves it!" he exclaimed, pushing away from you with frustration evident in his actions. "How can you not want to retaliate? How can you not feel the urge to fight back—"

You moved aside, gradually rising to your feet, shaking with anger. You desperately hoped that your legs wouldn't collapse beneath you. You walked away from bed. From him. "You think because I am unwanted, neglected and —and discarded—" Your voice rose with each word, the raw emotions suddenly pouring out of you, unleashed from your lungs. "You think I don't have a heart? You think I don't feel? You think because I have a chance to deliver pain, that I should? You're no different than him. This suffering will never end—"

"Love—"

"No."

You didn't want this. You didn't want this life. You didn't want to be anything for anyone but yourself. You wanted to make your own choices and never wanted to choose violence. Your words were slow and steady when you spoke. "He's a despicable man, and I am sorry for what he's done to you and others. I really am, but I can't help you take his life."

He opened his mouth to speak before he stopped; he laughed out loud and shook his head. Then he smiled at you.

"What?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

"I'm not concerned about your moral dilemmas. You're just stalling for time because you're in denial due to your reluctance to face the truth," he asserted. "But rest assured, You'll get over it. I can wait a little longer."

"I'm not in denial—"

"Of course you are. You don't know it yet, love, but you are a very naughty girl," he said, clutching his heart. "Just my type of friend."

This conversation had become intolerable. Your blood pressure rose, and you struggled to suppress your growing anger. "How can you possibly expect me to be your friend after everything you have done? Are you nuts?"

The surprise on his face surprised you even more. His eyes were fighting his lips for the right to speak. "I didn't do anything against your free will—"

"YOU LEFT ME WITH NO CHOICE." You were about to grab and throw the water glass at his face.

Vash turned away from you, his profile now in view. His hands clasped together, he seemed to be deep in thought, tapping the tip of his fingers to his lips. "For that, I apologize," he uttered, tilting his head back just a little. "You must understand just how sincerely sorry I am that I—" He smiled a strange, unhappy smile. "That I treated you like that. I confess I had no idea you would shoot me for it."

"I didn't," you interrupted, your voice firm and resolute. "Just stop, I don't want your excuses—"

"I promise you," he said. "I would never have acted that way if I didn't believe you wanted me to. I am a lot of things, but not that."

And you were so shocked that, for a second, you forgot all about everything. You met his heavy gaze and managed to steady your voice. "I told you not to touch me!"

"Yes," he replied, nodding in acknowledgment. "Well. You'd be surprised how many people lie to me daily." His lips twitched. "And in response, you tried to kill me."

"That amuses you."

"Oh, yes," he said, his grin growing. "I find it fascinating." He allowed a brief pause to hang in the air before continuing. "Would you like to know why?" You stared at him. "Because all you ever said to me," he explained, "was that you didn't want to hurt anyone. You didn't want revenge."

"I don't."

"Except for me?" he questioned. He looked like a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too close and ruined him forever.

There was glue all over your tongue, stuck to your teeth, your lips, the roof of your mouth. You couldn't speak, you couldn't move, you were pretty sure you just had a seizure or an aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as awful, but you couldn't explain any of this to him because you couldn't move your jaw even an inch.

"That decision was so easy for you to make," he said. "So simple. You had a gun, you wanted to escape, and you pulled the trigger—four times. That was all it took."

You shook your head.

But you were a liar. You were lying through your teeth, but you had to because he was right. Because despite repeatedly assuring yourself you had no interest in hurting people, you somehow found a way to justify it, to rationalize it when it served your desires.

Vash. Doctor Conrad. That man named Steve.

You wanted to kill every single one of them. And you would have executed them if the universe hadn't cooked your goose.

What was happening to you?

You shouldn't be alone with Vash. Not like this. Being alone with him was making your insides hurt in ways you didn't want to understand.

You leaned your back against the wall, slowly lowering yourself to the floor. With your knees drawn up to your chest, you wrapped your arms around them.

"You have every right to feel angry and frustrated about your situation. Even being angry with me for kidnapping you is valid. Life strips you of power often, but what you can control is pointing the blame in the right direction. So, you can either redirect all the effort you've been putting into acting like a brat and channel it towards something useful, or you can continue to be powerless in the situations life throws you in. The decision is yours to make, love. Because I will no longer force you into anything."

You had completely forgotten what it felt like to be chastised like a child. Your father did it often, but considering that was all he'd ever done, it felt less like being scolded and more like a normal conversation. But now? You felt nothing but small and bent out of shape like a piece of paper wadded up in Vash's boots. Pride bucked against that feeling, and you wanted nothing more than to snap something clever back and hold on to your dignity. But you would only prove him right. He'd look at you with superiority, and you'd only shrink further beneath him.

But to your surprise, he sat up and crouched down before you. Bringing himself to your level, not leaving you to roll in the deep all by yourself. Lowering his body, you noticed a bruise starting to form under his eye. Oddly enough, it just made him look sexier, and you wanted to punch him in the face for the tenth time all over again for it.

"What changed your attitude toward me?"

Seated on the floor, he positioned himself with his legs partially spread before you, resting his elbows on his knees. His head dipped, and his voice came out as a whisper, "Nick." You couldn't help but notice his hand reaching for his left wrist, where he clasped his scars with his palm. "He made me reconsider," he confessed, a fleeting smile briefly gracing his face before vanishing.

You froze. Faltered. Failed to breathe. "How—"

"So many questions," he mused, lifting his head and meeting your gaze. You found yourself searching for answers within his eyes. You didn't know what expression you must be wearing, but his smile grew bigger, and his eyes looked at you hard, too, like he might be savoring the moment, memorizing every second of it. There was a spark of instinct urging you to trust him because you wanted to make him happy. Because if he were happy, he would let you go. Because if he let you go, you would be able to be happy. Probably.

Vash shifted so the length of his leg was pressed against yours. You forced yourself to breathe as you focused on your fingers, the non-existent ants, and the wooden floor to stop yourself from blushing or flinching. The internal struggle made it difficult to discern which reaction was more prominent.

You found yourself grappling with his proposition. "If I become your friend, will you let me go once you've accomplished whatever you want?".

He leaned his hand to his temple and stared at your lips, studying you in an entirely new way. "My promises aren't worth much, love. Or have you forgotten?" he whispered. "I'm an exceptional liar."

Realization crashed into you like pounds of common sense. You shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be making deals with him. It was a grave mistake. The mere thought of contemplating torture sent shockwaves of alarm through your being. Dear Gods! You'd lost your mind. Your fists were balled at your sides, and you were shaking everywhere. You could hardly find the strength to speak.

In a quiet and timid voice, you mustered the courage to ask, "Will you ever release me?"

His response came with a heavy breath, and he spoke. "Yes," he affirmed. "I promise once your father dies, you will be set free. But till that day, you'll be my guest. No harm will ever come to you." There was no regret, no remorse, no sympathy in his voice. He could be talking about the weather.

"You could be lying," you stated, searching his morals.

"Yes, it's a possibility," he admitted, his demeanor shifting back to his mischievous self. "But that's not the case." As you watched, clearly taken aback, he shaped his hand into a firm fist, his fingers curling inward. Bringing his hand closer to his face, his lips grazed against his knuckles in a fleeting and unconventional act. With a playful manner, he extended his fist toward you, tapping the tip of his boot against your leg to capture your attention.

"What're you doing?" You raised an eyebrow.

"This is our friendship fist bump," he explained cheerfully, akin to when the beast had found the beauty to lock her in his dungeon. "I'm Vash Saverem, by the way," he added, introducing himself with a touch of charm.

"Excuse me?"

"My last name," he clarified. "Nice to meet you, Miss Mcfly."

Your gaze shifted from his face to the outstretched fist, but rather than reciprocating the fist bump ceremony, you clenched your own. This shit wasn't a child play. "Don't address me by my last name, or else the deal is null and void."

"Only if you stop calling me a monster, Miss Mcfly," he responded casually, relenting and lowering his fist. Unsure of what to do with his hand, he absentmindedly brushed off imaginary dust from his pants.

“Go to hell, Vash Saverem.”

His smile was sprinkled with dynamite. "I'm working on it, love."

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances @awkwardchick87

P.S.: In this chapter, I included quotes from "Bungo Stray Dogs," "Jujutsu Kaisen," and some other books I've read.

#vash the stampede fluff #vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede x you #vash the stampede x y/n #vash the stampede smut #trigun x reader #vash x you #vash smut #vash the stampede angst #toxic vash the stampede #vash x reader #vash fluff #trigun smut #toxic vash #vash x y/n #vash stampede x reader #trigun fanfiction #vash x wolfwood #vash and wolfwood #vashwood #vash the stampede art #vash our beloved #vash the stampede #vash angst #tristamp #nicholas d. wolfwood #vash the stampede fanart #trigun stampede #trigun vash #Gunpowder Dreams

[solarmorrigan]

Dustin barely remembers his dad.

This isn’t his dad’s fault, of course; he’d died when Dustin was pretty young. His mom had been too broken up about it to even think about dating for a long time, and after a while she’d just started telling Dustin that he’s the only man she needs in her life (this declaration is met with either a smile or an eye-roll, depending on the day). And that’s perfectly fine, Dustin isn’t trying to push his mom into anything she doesn’t want, it’s just that it left him without any kind of older male figure in his life for pretty much his entire childhood.

And it’s not like his mom didn’t do a perfectly good job raising and providing for him. He loves her and wouldn’t trade her for anything. It’s not that she isn’t enough – it’s just that there are certain things that dads are better applied to, that’s all.

Things like bullies.

Sure, if Dustin’s mom learned that he was getting bullied, she’d probably march right down to the school and badger the administration until they agreed to “do something about it,” but that would amount to almost nothing, because teachers (and Dustin says this with all the fondness in the world for Mr. Clarke) are kind of useless. Being able to yell something like If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll get my dad to beat you up! would have been way more satisfying.

(Dustin gets that this isn’t a bulletproof plan. Mike had tried this once, hoping to bluff his way through, since his dad is unlikely to do much more than tell him to go ask his mom for a bag of frozen peas if he comes home with bruises, but it had resulted in pretty much the normal amount of being beaten up. Dustin’s not saying it’s effective, just that it would be satisfying.)

But then, the second time the Upside Down rears its faceless-yet-ugly head, Dustin is granted an unexpected boon: Steve Harrington.

The Dustin of the pre-Mindflayer days would be disgusted with himself, but that Dustin can suck it, because present-day Dustin now has a friend who’ll help him hunt monsters, and who has a car, and who gives him tips on how to do his hair and how to pick up girls (and maybe they’re not really useful tips, but it’s still part of what Dustin has always wanted), and who’s pretty cool, actually.

A big brother is almost as good as a dad, right? Big brothers are definitely supposed to fight off bullies for you.

Except, Dustin realizes with disappointment as he thinks back, Steve isn’t exactly a fighter. Like, not a good one. In fact, he’s pretty sure Steve has never actually won a fight in his life.

So, no, he’s probably not Dustin’s best bet for fighting bullies off.

But that’s okay, Dustin likes him anyway (even if this does leave him back at square one). Steve’s good for other things.

Other things that apparently involve rolling up in front of the school with almost unrealistically good timing just as Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will are getting out of AV club (Max has refused to join because it’s “too nerdy” for her, which Dustin figures is her loss) and are being followed by a couple of hecklers – Donny and Ken, this time. El might’ve scared off James and Troy, but middle school bullydom is a power vacuum that will always draw some new asshole to the top.

It's nothing they haven’t heard before. Comments about their being nerds and freaks, stuff about Will’s “resurrection,” stuff about Dustin’s condition. Maybe they’re getting a little meaner, because there’s a little more homophobic shit in there than there used to be, a little more racist shit, but it’s not like they’re going to let themselves be rattled by a couple of bullies, not after everything they’ve faced together.

But it is… annoying.

(Fine, it’s hurtful. Words still hurt, apparently, even if you’ve fought literal extradimensional monsters and won, which Dustin feels is a flaw in the design of the human brain.)

Donny and Ken do slow up a little when they spot Steve’s car, but so do Dustin and the rest of the party, because they have no idea what Steve is doing there.

Steve, entirely oblivious to everyone’s confusion, gets out of the car and smiles and waves at them. It’s only because Dustin is watching in bewilderment that he sees the way Steve’s attention flashes just for a second to the boys standing behind them, but he’s not sure if he’s imagining the way his eyes narrow a little, or the way his smile suddenly seems a little sharper.

“Hey, Steve,” Dustin waves back, because this is kinda weird, but it’s not like he’s unhappy to see his friend. “What’re you doing here?”

Steve shrugs. “Wasn’t busy this afternoon, and I remembered you mentioned having your club thing tonight. Thought I’d give you a ride.” He strides forward, holding out his hands. “I’ll put your stuff in the back and we can get going.”

“Is this a kidnapping?” Mike stares at Steve suspiciously, even though Dustin, Lucas, and Will are already shouldering off their bags.

“No, it is not a kidnapping,” Steve snaps. “See if I ever do a favor for your rude ass again, Wheeler. You want a ride, or not?”

Mike sighs and rolls his eyes, but hands his backpack to Steve anyway, and with all four bags in hand, Steve rounds the back of the car and pops the trunk.

“Just gotta make some room,” Steve says, leaning in and pushing some things around. One of those things comes tumbling out of the trunk and hits the pavement with a clatter of wood and metal.

The nail bat.

And despite Steve’s reasonably convincing mutter of “Whoops, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” there’s no way it could have been anything but intentional, because Steve usually keeps the bat safely stowed at the back of the trunk, since he wants to avoid being arrested or otherwise under suspicion for carrying something that is very obviously a weapon.

He pushes their backpacks into the trunk and then picks the bat up, gives it that twirl that Dustin still can’t quite figure out the purpose of (does it actually help, or does it just look cool?) and props it up on his shoulder. When he looks up, he looks past their little group and pretends to spot Donny and Ken for the first time, where they’re still skulking curiously at the edge of the parking lot.

“Oh, hey.” Steve takes a few steps forward, grinning amiably, reaching out with his free hand, as if he’s completely forgotten he’s holding a baseball bat full of nails in his other, and offering it to the two of them to shake. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. I’m Steve. You two friends with my guys?”

(Dustin likes the way Steve says that: my guys. Like he’s adopted the whole lot of them and is going to stand between them and hell, because they’re his – but they’re not just kids, they’re guys; like they’re equals. Dustin likes it a lot.)

Pale and wide-eyed, neither Donny nor Ken manages more than a sort of uhh noise before Lucas pipes up.

“Not exactly.”

It’s then that Steve lets his posture change, shifting from the comfortable and approachable one Dustin’s gotten used to, and into something squared and solid.

“Not exactly, huh?” Steve says, looking between Donny and Ken, his voice gone a little sharper. “You wanna clear that one up for me, boys? I mean, you don’t give my guys here trouble, do you?”

“No!” Donny chokes out. Ken shakes his head quickly.

“No?” Steve asks.

“Nah. No, in fact, we were just heading home,” Donny says. Ken has become a bobblehead.

And then they do just that, practically running home with their tails between their legs.

“Huh,” Steve says, turning back towards the car with a smirk, giving the bat another lazy twirl before stuffing it safely into the back of the trunk. “Wonder what got into them?”

Dustin, Lucas, Will, and even Mike barely stop laughing the whole way home.

#this is ridiculous and I'm sorry #dustin henderson #steve harrington #stranger things #steve & dustin #steve & the party #do ampersands even work with the tumblr tagging system #guess I'll find out #solar wrote

[grippingbeskar]

salt, ice and fire | frank castle

chapter nineteen - proper representation

frank castle x reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of death, description of injury, canon typical violence

a/n: OKAY. i am so sorry with how long this has taken. finals are literally eating my ass and not in a good way. but it feels so good to write SOMETHING FINALLY. i forgot how much i <3 this series. thx for sticking with me pals xx. enjoy!!!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Seven hours is a long time. Mostly, Frank thinks of you.

He can’t stop thinking about you— it’s been months since he’s had a thought that you haven’t been attached to in some way. Even when he thinks of the kid strapped in the back seat, it’s because he knows you. But, in seven hours of open road and the persistent pain in his gut at the way you left, anyone’s brain would drift.

He has no idea why he did it. Why he took your brother, why he bothered. Why he thought he’d be any better than the random group home he’d get stuck into, or the foster family that would forget about him within the week and lock him in his room, trading one shit hole for another. He can’t help but think of Billy— the Billy he knew, not the one he pulled a trigger on. That Billy he hadn’t known, hadn’t cared about.

But the old Billy, his friend. The one who dragged him out of the mud more times than he could count, the one his wife used to set a place at the table for, just incase he needed some place to eat. That Billy, who’s group home cared so little they didn’t notice they’d hired a pedophile to foster little boys.

He couldn’t let them take the risk. Your brother had been through enough— the dark rings around his eyes, a faint green bruise on his cheek, Frank hated that he saw some similarity in his own face, knowing the force they’d have to of hit him with. Maybe that’s why he offered to take Sam back with him, look after him for God knows how long, because you needed him safe, and then you’d come home to him.

With all that, knowing he’d probably done the right thing, he couldn’t get rid of the sick feeling twisting up his throat every time he glanced into the rear view mirror. Sam was staring out the window, blinking hard in an attempt to keep his eyes open. He looked like you, but only because Frank had spent so much time staring at your face. You must look like your mother, because this kid had different eyes, a different face, similar only in subtle ways someone who really knew you would see.

Frank liked kids. He never had issues with David’s kids— probably got too involved with them, if he was honest. Then there was Amy, but she wasn’t much of a kid. More of a teenager, but he never really figured out he actual age with all the damn fake ID’s she had. Either way, she’d been like a kid to him. He had a soft spot for them, it was always where he had give. So why does this make him sweat? Is it because the rest of those kids all had families of their own? Had ways of getting on without him, not actually his responsibility? None of them looked to him for shelter, for food, for the normal shit only parents gave their kids. No one looked at him like that anymore, until Sam had wandered up to him and asked if he could pull over at a Burger King on the way out.

It was the simplest thing, but he’d just come up and asked him and the whole thing felt like a punch in the face. He couldn’t be that anymore. He didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t take care of something. He couldn’t help. Maybe he should of just let them take the chance and—

“Burger King.” Sam mumbles into his palm, other hand pointing to the side of the road where the faint red and yellow lights lit up the burger place. Frank says nothing, hasn’t for about 4 hours now, just indicates off the road and pulls into the first parking spot.

It’s getting dark now, but the twenty four hour sign is faintly flashing over head. Sam’s already halfway out the car when Frank finishes running over all the risks of pulling the car over here and now, but the kids been through enough, and Frank doesn’t have the heart to say no. When he gets inside, Sam is standing at the door. Waiting for him.

“Go on.” Frank points at the counter, and Sam hesitates. He knows he must be starving, but he still just stands at the door, looking between the counter and Frank.

“I don’t know what to do.” He says in the smallest voice, and the way he looks at him, to him— “I’ve never been inside one before.”

“T’s alright. Go sit down, I’ll get you something. What do you like?” Frank bends a little so the kid could hear him. He wasn’t short, but Frank didn’t want to talk loud and embarrass him. He doesn’t really know why he cares.

“Lots of pickles. And mustard.” He smiles, and then goes and sits down in one of the booths. The fact Frank got through the interaction without fucking it up spurs him on a little, and he orders a burger with as many pickles as they can stack on it.

When he brings it over to him, Sam is staring out at the sky, head bouncing back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, following the cars passing by. Then he must smell the food, because he all but jumps the table, grabbing the burger Frank slid over and taking the biggest bite out of it he can fit in his mouth.

“Slow down. You’ll choke.” Frank says, and something in his stomach twists at the words. So familiar— he remembers it was you he said them to at that diner he always went to back in the day.

“Sorry.” Sam muffled through the chips he’s shoving down his throat now, and Frank can’t help but laugh a little at the sight. As much as it pulls at him that this kid is probably eating so fast cause he’s not used to being fed regularly, he’s just glad he’s out. It comes at a cost, though, and thinking about you, Frank isn’t sure there’s any price he’d be willing to pay not to have you here.

They eat in silence, mainly because Sam doesn’t take a breath in between gulps of a giant soda and heaps of burger and fries, but really it’s because Frank can’t look at him. Doesn’t know what to say to him. It doesn’t seem to bother Sam though, who, like you, even with all the shit he must have seen and been through, is as resilient as ever.

“So, what’s the plan?” He asks after a giant mouthful of soda.

“What?” Frank croaks, voice strained from silence.

“The plan? To get Bobby?” Frank scoffs at this, but then realises the kid is serious.

“The plan is to keep you out of trouble.”

“That’s bullshit.” Sam crosses his legs and faces Frank fully. “You have to help me go back. And to get her.”

“I’m handlin’ it, alright? Eat your burger.” Sam’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks younger when he does it; tilting his head and scowling.

“I know you want to. I saw you…” Frank sighs, thinking about going back up and getting the kid another burger so he shuts up. “I saw you kiss her.”

“Jesus Christ.” Frank shakes his head and looks out the window again.

“You did.” He says it with his face screwed up, a little bit of childish disgust, but mostly determination. “You’re going back for her. I want to help.”

“You let me worry about that.” Sam copies him, shaking his head and looking out the window. If it wasn’t such bad lighting in here, Frank might have sworn he saw a tear in the kids eye, but it was swiped away too fast. The guilt eats at him a little. “Look, the reason she did all this shi— stuff, in the first place, is to get you out and make sure you were safe. The last thing I’m doing is dragging you back there. I’ll handle it.”

“I just want to help her like she helped me.” His voice was small again, and Frank swallows the feeling of guilt that bubbles up his throat. “She… she did a lot of bad things, didn’t she? To get me out?”

“Nothin’ they didn’t force her to.” Frank looks at the table, eyes finding anywhere else to concentrate on.

“Is she in trouble?” Clearing his throat, Frank thinks about how they shoved you in that car in handcuffs. He trusted Madani, but also knew her loyalty didn’t lie with him. “Cause of the things she did?”

“She’ll be fine.” He doesn’t say anything else. He just has to trust that what he’s done is enough. They both walk back out to the car in silence, and this time, Sam gets in the front seat. Shuffling around with whatever trash was on the floor, he bends down and picks something up, and Frank doesn’t see it right away until he puts them on.

Even though it’s pitch dark outside, Sam slides those stupid sunglasses you made him buy months ago onto his face, and drifts off to sleep in the same spot you had a million times over. Frank nearly splits the skin on his knuckles holding onto the steering wheel, pulling off the highway and heading toward you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I thought there’d be more questioning, less pacing.” You say to Agent Madani, and she looks at the door for the hundredth time, like she’s waiting for something. “Is something wrong here?”

“Beside the fact I have a known fugitive stowed away in one of the most secure facilities in the world? Nothing at all.” She was stressed. Pacing around the table, and looking at the door like she’s expecting someone to walk through it.

“You could just let me go.” She sighs. The last thing she should want right now is company, so what was she waiting for? She needed you to save her ass, be the missing link to why she had all this information. Why she showed up at Silo, how she knew about today, how she found the house you were at. All of it needed to be connected, and you were the missing link, and yet ever since she marched you through the back door of this building, she hadn’t asked you a single question.

“Never on time.” She sighs under her breath.

“What?” Madani stops pacing.

“We have to wait.” She says, leaning back.

“Wait for what?”

“Just…” She marches toward the door. “Stay here. I need to make another phone call. If anyone knocks—“

“Kill them?” You hear her sigh again before the door clicks shut. Looking around the room, the long table stretches before you. No other chairs on your side, but opposite you, there’s three.

A little part of you sparks to life, the part infused with Franks backward lessons of looking at every room you walked into like it would be the last one you saw. You could feel your face pulling with concentration, trying to take as much in as you could in the seemingly plain room. Frank never so much as flinched, didn’t even blink or think twice and still managed to be ten steps ahead of everyone in the room. But Frank wasn’t here, and you knew for a fact those chairs weren’t going to be for him.

Three chairs. Why would Madani set this room up with three chairs? You were on a wanted list, she couldn’t exactly plan a public meeting with you and anyone else, let alone sit across from you while the entire CIA sat outside waiting on orders to kill you. She’s waiting for someone. Two someone’s. Security?

The click of heels outside the door snap you to focus. Two sets of heels— not security, unless the CIA is hiring. There’s another sound, one that you can’t exactly place. You close your eyes, trying to tap into whatever enhancement is running through your veins, but then the door swings open and locks again faster than you can put together, like the people who were now inside were shoved in.

Eyes wide open, it takes a second for your body to come out of defence mode. Madani is in front of you, and there’s two more people now, the first you know well, and the other familiar.

“Karen?” Your eyes squint, like you’re not sure what you are seeing is real. It’s been a long fucking day… why the hell would she be here of all places? “And… you. I met you.”

“Under worse circumstances.” The man says, his cane tapping around the room while Karen walks behind him, offering you a sympathetic smile. “Matthew Murdock.”

“Nice to meet you?” Your voice is a little higher pitched than normal, only because you were fucking confused. Frank had said something about this guy before… “I think I’m out of the loop here. I had the impression you were going to… arrest me.”

“I never wanted that.” Madani says.

“Well the handcuffs your officers put me in seemed to say otherwise.” She sits down on the left, Matthew in the middle and Karen on the right. “What is this supposed to be.”

“You have a lot of powerful friends.” He says, and you scoff. “Agent Madani called me a few weeks back. She thinks I can help you and your brother. If you’re willing to work with me.”

“And work with you would involve…” Your chest tightens, and he reacts as if he can see how you’ve frozen up, shaking his head.

“Not like that. I’m a lawyer. I want to clear your name.” There’s a moment of silence, and then you stifle out a laugh.

“A lawyer?” You look to Madani. “Could you not have told me that’s what we were doing here?”

“There’s about 400 people in this building that want you dead. The rest of them want to throw you and your brother in a hole for the rest of your life. If I had even suggested bringing you in for a fair trial, it would of set off yet another group of angry men vying to tear you apart. And anyone around you.” Sitting back in your chair, you let out a long breath. “Frank suggested it.”

“Really?” She nods in a way that suggests he hadn’t just asked, he’d forced her hand.

“You have a right to be represented. Even if they wanted to trial you for the death penalty—“ You swallow the tiny amount of fear that shoots up your throat “—which they won’t, they need to do it properly. Your brother hasn’t done anything wrong. They can’t touch him without going against basically every human rights law they protect. Even going after you, with the story you have…”

“Yeah. I get it.” You look up and blink a few times, and Matthew nods, leaning into Karen as a silent suggestion to take over.

“Matt can help you. I’ve seen him do it. He helped Frank… me, too.”

“You?”

“Once.” Your eyebrows raise, and you nod. Maybe impressed isn’t the right word for it, but you think you’ve miscalculated the kind of person she is, and it only makes you like her more. “You aren’t a bad person. If you can get in front of a jury, tell them about your brother… about your family.”

“You helped the CIA’s investigation, and we can use that to reduce whatever sentence they want to stick you with.” Matt continues, putting a bag on the desk.

“Unofficially.” Madani reminds him, and he smiles.

“Not anymore.”

“You can make sure they don’t touch my brother?” You lean over the table a little, and both Matt and Karen turn back to you.

“I know I can.” That is enough for you, so you’re surprised when he keeps talking. “He’ll be safe, but I think I can make it easier for you, too. You can have a life after all this. The one you should of had from the beginning.”

There was a time where you thought you knew exactly what your life would be. You thought you’d die doing something you hated, trying to kill someone for Bobby or whoever came after him. There wasn’t a life you pictured, and even when you’d dared to hope, the only one you could think of was spending the rest of it scared as shit someone would come after you or Sam. A life looking over your shoulder.

There was so many things that were different now, the past six months had changed everything. You’d seen your brother now, spoken to him. Now, you were being offered more— a life, maybe something more than a few short paranoid years. Your throat felt tight and you tried to look anywhere you couldn’t see your own reflection.

When he’d said you could have a life, you looked away from yourself instantly, because the first thing you’d thought of— as selfish as it was, was the life you could have with Frank. One full of nights like the few you had shared. Even paranoid and running, a life of that would be worth all this if it was with him.

Karen called your name, and slid over a piece of paper you made no sense of.

“I don’t… have any money.” Embarrassing as it is, you know people like this cost big, and you don’t think you’ve ever had more than $20 to your name.

“If I was in this job for the money, I’d be in the wrong business.” He smiles, handing you a pen. “Don’t worry about it. This is just a paper that says you’re willing to be represented by me.” You sign the paper, writing the letters of your name slowly and in print.

“Okay. Now what?” Sliding the paper back over to him, he turns to Madani.

“You were expecting questions?” She says, and pulls out a laptop along with about twelve case files that all have the word UNSOLVED printed in red ink. “You can start here.”

She hands you one file, and when you open it, the date reads about seven years from today. If you thought today was a long day, it was about to get a whole lot longer. She starts asking questions about where you were, what you did that day, and you answer as best you can, but all you can really think about is is that little ember of hope resting deep in your stomach, and how it slowly catches fire with each passing minute.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Don’t answer that.” Matt says from beside you now, and Madani sighs. “What?”

“Again? Seriously?” She says, and he keeps his head up, listening as his hands run along the braille of the files Karen has converted. They have been going at this for hours while Madani asked you every question under the sun. “I’m asking if she killed him. It’s a yes or no answer.”

“She was coerced, and by that timeline she would have been 16 years old. You’re going to charge a 16 year old who was being held captive and threatened with her only family members life with murder?” He never stops reading through the file, and once he hears Madani take yours front in front of you, he slides it away and grabs the next one.

“Let’s do something more recent then, shall we?” She slides another file to you, and you recognise it instantly. So does Karen. “Gus Daley. Murdered behind 3rd Street just three months ago. About the time you were working with the Colonel.”

“For him. Working for him. And lets not mix our words. The man’s name was Connor Flannery, and he was not a Colonel.” You can’t help but smile a little bit at how fast he was with this. You liked Madani, but you knew her loyalty couldn’t lie with you, so it was nice to have someone on your side out here.

“Fine. This was when Connor Flannery was forcing you to work for him?” When you hear no objections from Matt, you nod. 

“Yes.” The little camera she had set up blinks in recognition, and the only other sound is Karen shoving papers along the table. 

“What happened?” The last time you saw this man was in a service station, his lifeless corpse on the front page of a newspaper Frank was looking at. You remember you had expected him to look at you with disgust, and how he hadn’t even flinched.

“He wanted him dead, and gave me a date and a time. It was very structured with him. He planned the whole thing. Where to go, when, how he wanted it done.” Madani nods, listening intently. 

“How many jobs did he send you on?”

“Eight or nine, I think.”

“You think?”

“She clearly wasn’t in a right state of mind. She didn’t even know the man’s name before I told her. Flannery and Bobby Gnucci did everything except get their hands dirty.” Matt says.

“And when you found out that they were working together? What did you do then?” An image of The Colonels body in the woods is shoved in front of you— Karen’s article that bought you the precious seconds of time to get to your brother.

“I bolted as soon as I got the chance.” Okay, not entirely true. It took some convincing on Franks part to get you to leave, and when you found out you killed him. But you can’t imagine that’s going to look great for you right now, so you leave it at that.

“The article says what happened to him. I wrote it myself.” Karen says, and Madani turns her attention off you for the first time in hours.

“Thanks to a photo from an anonymous source, correct? I know it wasn’t anyone in this room that sent that photo, and I’m inclined to think Frank Castle had something to do with it.” At the mention of him, your chest tightens again. “You two were close. I can’t imagine you’d question him too much if he came to you and told you what happened. Even if you didn’t think it was true. Maybe even write an article— just because he asked. You’d do just about anything for him, wouldn’t you?”

It’s like you are interrupting something. Everyone here knows each other better than you do— you know a little about what they’ve all been through together, but if Agent Madani knows enough about Karen and Frank…

“I write the truth. Always.” Karen’s also a better liar than you pegged her for.

“How is any of this relevant, Agent?” Matt chimes in, and you don’t have to look back to hear the smirk in his voice. “You’ve got what you wanted now, right? She’s told you everything she knows— more than enough to convince a jury she was working with you well before she got her brother back. If this has to go to trial—“

“If?”

“I’m a reasonable man. We can make a deal, or we can drag this through court. I don’t know how well your new colleges will react to you working behind their back, though. I don’t want to risk you being invited to Friday night drinks, right?” Matt stands.

“What are you suggesting?” Madani says, and Matt smiles.

“I’ll let you know after I’ve discussed with my client. For now, I think there’s a kid who’d like to see his sister.” Karen opens the door, and when Matt walks through it you realise you’re still frozen in your seat.

“Go.” Agent Madani says, blowing out a frustrated breath. You stand, but instead of walking out the door you turn to face her.

“I want to say thank you.” Your voice is quiet— tired as hell. There’s still blood on your fingernails when you stick out your hand to shake hers. “For everything you did for my brother. And me. You didn’t have to do all of this, and I know how much you’re risking. I owe you.”

“No, you don’t.” She takes your hand, shaking it once. “I spent a long time doing the wrong thing for the wrong people. I like being the good guy for once.” For some reason that makes you smile. You— the good thing?

“Still. I owe you.” She reaches into her bag after you finish and hands you something.

“Now we’re even.” Before you can look at what she gave you, she’s walking out the door, brushing past Matt. “Don’t call me unless you have a good deal.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She scoffs and disappears into the now dark hallway, and it must be the middle of the night now because all the lights are off and the window of the room you’re in is pitch black. “You ready?”

Nodding, you follow them out, finally looking down at what Madani gave you.

A small black square— exactly like the burner phone Frank has, and when you turn it on, there’s only one number on it. You don’t even blink before you hit call.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

tag list:

@stress–relief

@hellskitchens-whore

@blkwayne

@itwasthereaminuteago

@margoo0

@daisykins

@paryl

@urlocalgeek

@hello-lisa1026

@castlesnchurches

@superbreadsoul

@lemon-world1

@officalpetergriffin

@batcreep

@quackson03

@violetsandroses8

@turningtoclown

@yourfriendhenrywinter

@peaky-shelby

@hollandorks 

#frank castle #frank x reader #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle smut #frank castle imagine #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x oc #the punisher #the punisher x you #the punisher x reader #the punisher smut #the punisher fanfiction

[random-twst-and-oc-stuff]

My OCs as angels

Inspired by @ceruleancattail and their TCG thing.

Here, for some more context.

Now, would my children be fallen angels? Yes. But some would be normal angels and others would be guardian angels.

Since I have more OCs on the way, this will be updated. I have a problem.

Now, let's get into it.

Sarah Collins/Kingscholar:

A regular angel.

Might even be a guardian angel, but she's too young for that according to Heaven's rules.

Anyway, her curiosity about the human world made her fall. Well, it was actually one of the causes.

The God was kind enough to send the little angel to explore the human world to satisfy her curiosity. But she had a month to do so or she'd lose her wings, as a lack of better term.

And she was sent off in her human disguise to explore.

But the child was kidnapped during her investigation which made her stay forcibly prolonged. (Yes, getting kidnapped is also in Original!Sarah's backstory. I just forgot to add it.)

Yeah, she's not an angel no more.

Losing her angel privileges wasn't a pleasant feeling. It's quite the painful experience.

She escaped from the kidnappers and went looking for help. Help did indeed come.

She's now living with her new family.

Quinn Francis Johnson:

A guardian angel in training.

They're a fast learner, so they quickly got their human to watch over.

They don't like the human. At all.

Thought about going down there and giving him a piece of their mind numerous times, but held back. Guardian angels are supposed to protect humans, not hurt them.

That was until he said he said something unacceptable.

Screw the rules, he's catching those hands.

Yes, they lost their angel privileges.

It's painful, but homie has a worryingly big pain tolerance, so they're fine. Sort of-

Has no regrets. Would do it again.

At least life in the human world gives them the freedom they never knew they needed.

Beatrice Dawn O'Kelly:

Guardian angel.

Was assigned to watch over a very sweet child.

Of course she wouldn't break the rules. I mean, she's such a good girl.

Well, until she saw the precious child get hurt.

Mama Bear Mode: On

Got down faster than you can say "Angel"

Obviously lost her wings, but it's worth it if you ask her.

Now she works a caretaker in an orphanage. The kids love her.

The child she watched over is also an orphan, so...

Yeah, the two are pretty close.

Rosemary Autumn Nathara Moon:

Regular angel.

Same reasons as Sarah.

Wanted to explore, was allowed to for a limited period of time, but got kidnapped.

Here's the difference though: Rosemary got kidnapped for scientific reasons.

Didn't want to hide her wings and wore them as a cape. Or said it was part of a costume.

Yeah, that was a mistake. Especially when she could feel a feather being plucked out. Girl literally flinched.

Losing her wings was one of the many painful things she's been through.

She got released after a certain period of time.

Her appearance being altered is inevitable along with the name change.

Doesn't think she belongs in Heaven after this anyway, so Nathara doesn't make it a big deal. She does. Petty as hell about it

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst mc #twst oc #disney twisted wonderland #sarah kingscholar #quinn johnson #beatrice o'kelly #nathara moon #fallen angel au🕊 #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #random's stuff

[theundertalenebulartheory]

Dream Catcher, Nightmare Snatcher (A Symbiote Nightmare!Sans Fic)

((I’ve had this idea rattling around in the back of my brain for a while, inspired originally by @zwagyzonk and their little comic of Nightmare as a sleep paralysis demon that gets captured by a dreamcatcher. https://zwagyzonk.tumblr.com/tagged/sleep%20paralysis

But @mothiepixie and the Nightmare Revival she’s inspired with her Symbiote Nightmare https://www.tumblr.com/mothiepixie/tagged/symbiote%20nightmare

gave me the kick in the pants I needed to finally put something a little more coherent together.))

DREAM CATCHER, NIGHTMARE SNATCHER CH1

You’re cursed.

Utterly and completely, hopelessly cursed.

It was the only explanation. You’d been having night terrors for weeks on end. Spooky voices following you through the woods. A cyan eye. Falling. Running. Your pants missing at your commencement ceremony. Teeth falling out. A cheshire smile. You’re late to the most important event of your life. It’s your birthday and nobody shows up. Even the kind where everything seems normal but it’s just wrong in ways you can’t actually articulate nor even strictly identify, but in ways that become oppressively more intense until you’re screaming and crying as you come-to from something so horrendous as the ice cream man asking you what flavor you wanted. Ink-black oil-slicked tentacles lashing out from the shadows and dragging you into the dark.

Needless to say, you’re also desperate.

Utterly and completely, hopelessly desperate.

You’ve tried everything. Melatonin. Warm milk. No TV before bed. A break from social media. Researching dream meanings online. Avoiding fast food. A warm bath before bed. Staying up for a full night and not sleeping until the next night to try to exhaust yourself past the point of being even capable of experiencing nightmares. Alcohol. Reading silly stories. Buying different laundry detergent. Changing the thermostat. Checking for carbon monoxide.

More nightmares.

You dragged, quite literally if the scraping sound of the scuff of your shoes is anything to go by, yourself through a Farmer’s Market you’d had on your calendar for days. You were excited to be here. You’d wanted to come. There were colors and people and sounds and smells. But you were so, so tired you could barely focus on anything happening around you. Even the strongest espresso you could buy was barely keeping you vertical. You were clutching it like a life preserver and trying to look at the art and you reached for a little sample of cheese. Your mouth told them (someone) it’s amazing even though you couldn’t actually remember if it made it past your teeth. You’re exhausted, incoherent, and in danger of falling on someone or something if you keep going even though you’re barely halfway through. It was warm and sunny and not even the brightest summer sunshine could keep you upright so you reached for another sample of something. The nice lady behind the stall asked if you could only please take two and you don’t even remember taking the first one. So, you admitted defeat and turned around. You just had to get back to your car. You have to drive home without getting into an accident. You have to...

You sat. It was shady. And still shiny. Colorful. Someone asked you a question and you answered. Then kept talking. Until there were tears. Something was pressed into your hand and you reached into your wallet, grabbing what was in there and trading everything you had for whatever was in your hand before fleeing.

You’d forgotten your espresso somewhere before arriving home, clutching your new prize as if it could save you. As if it had answers to questions you couldn’t even ask. You flopped into bed on your back, your prize resting over your heart (your soul) as you passed from consciousness.

It’s the dark and spooky woods again. You’re breathing quickly, great gulps of air giving you barely any reprieve as you dodge trees and stumble over their roots. Roots that reach for you, oil-slick and glistening eerily as they grab for your legs and ankles. You don’t even know what you’re running from, only that It’s Coming. And if you stop, you’ll be caught. Dragged away. So, you run. Your blood is pounding in your ears and tears are streaming down your cheeks, or maybe it’s the blood from catching a branch across your face. All at once the roots grab at you and you hit the ground hard enough to bounce, knocking the wind completely out of your lungs. You lay there gaping, suffocating, drowning, and over your shoulder there’s that cyan eye and the cheshire smile. The roots have you trapped, winding tighter around you like a boa constrictor. They wrap around your neck, your face, holding you completely immobile as that menacing smile grows closer and the cold chill of terror seeps into your very bones.

A black, skeletal hand reaches for you and catches your face.

There’s something in your hand.

You wrench free of just one tentacle and shove it at him. He easily catches your hand, prying your prize from your desperate clutches. It’s a... net. And you aren’t letting go. But then again... neither is he. The smile falters as the skeletal hand draws back, caught fast by the fingertips in the delicate weave of the net, and then by the wrist. The entity jerks back fully, the tentacles around you instantly dissolving and you choke out a wheezing gasp as they struggle against the threads that seem to be materializing out of the shimmering beads embedded in the net that’s still held fast in your hand. It’s arm is fully caught, and then it’s ribcage. He shouts in distress and disbelief as he’s fully entangled, and not even all the tentacle roots surrounding you can wiggle free.

Something in the dreamscape shifts and changes and suddenly you’re... yourself. It’s you. Awake and lucid and staring wide-eyed at this... being. Creature. Monster.

He’s trapped.

The threads grow thicker and stronger until they’re chains holding HIM immobile and he’s shouting a loud string of archaic curses as he thrashes in his bonds. Bonds that stretch across the small clearing and lead right back to your hand.

He, too, follows the lines and discovers YOU to be his captor. He snarls, bares his fangs and strains will the full might of his power. Roars with a multi-layered voice that growls deeply enough you think you feel your bones rattle, “What Have You Done!?”

“ME?” You ask incredulously, still reeling from this turn of events. You blink at him, utterly flabbergasted and honestly a little offended. “You were the one chasing me! Are YOU the reason I’ve been having nightmares for weeks? What the hell, man!?”

The skeleton snaps his teeth at you, thrashing regardless of how useless it seems to be. “Silence! I’ll not be spoken to in such a manner! I am a demigod! Nightmare, Guardian of Negativity. You are a mere human. Kneel when you speak to me, peasant!”

You raise a single eyebrow at him. “Kneel. To you. Uhhh... no thanks. You’ve been terrorizing me for weeks, I don’t have to do jack shit. If anything, YOU should be the one who’s kneeling! I’ve fallen asleep at work like 10 times this month. I’m probably one more infraction away from getting fired. I could have died, dude. If I’m driving to work and I fall asleep at the wheel, I could kill other people AND myself! YOU kneel! YOU say sorry!”

Nightmare actually verbally sputters at that, glaring at you with hatred, disgust, and vitriol. “I do not kneel to anyone. The insolence. Your unmitigated gall is reason enough for me to end your pathetic life this instant. No ties can truly bind a being such as myself. I do not know what tricks you have devised to hold me this long, but you stand there and speak to me in this manner no longer. Perhaps if you beg, I may take pity enough on you to end you quickly and painlessly.”

You blink at him, your expression deeply unimpressed. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Ok. Well. That’s nice. You seem pretty stuck there, though.”

It’s now Nightmare’s turn to give you a flat, unimpressed look. The root tentacles begin to undulate and thrash in earnest now, his teeth gritting as he strains against his bonds. He growls with the effort, attempting to pull them back underground, slip between the cracks, even flex against the chains to try to break them. But they hold fast, almost as if they’re somewhat elastic and sticky. He thrashes harder, growl raising to a snarl and finally to a howl of frustration when it becomes clear that he’s absolutely stuck fast and cannot break his confinement.

“Blast these chains! How have you done this!? What is that in your hand!? What device have you crafted that has fastened me so!?”

You drop your gaze down to the thing in your hands and you’re surprised to see it’s a dreamcatcher. You’d call it ordinary since you’re pretty sure most people where you’re from are at least familiar with what it is and how it’s made but it’s actually far from ordinary. It’s stunning. You can feel the care and attention to detail put into it, and what little bit of silver light filters through the trees catches beautifully in the moonstone beads carefully woven into the design. Its small size is more than made up for by its intricacy, and you’re half wondering if it’s some kind of lace inside of the hoop. It isn’t, of course, but such delicate and intricate weaving is certainly reminiscent of lace.

“Huh. You know... I don’t actually know how I got this. I think maybe I bought it? Or someone gave it to me? I don’t really remember, it’s all a bit fuzzy.”

“You don’t...” Nightmare shakes with fury and the chains rattle ominously. “You aren’t even aware of how you came to possess it? What kind of dullard are you? You half-wit! Blundering Trollop!”

You couldn’t help but snort at him a little. “Wow. Go back to the 1400’s, my man. They want their speech patterns back.” You shake your head as he shrieks about your insult, and you go back to inspecting your super cool prize.

“Alright, here’s how this is going to work. This thing caught you because you’ve been giving me nightmares. I’m going to wake up, and then I’m going to look online to see how you like... cleanse it or purify it or whatever. That should banish you back to wherever it is you came from. And then I’m going to keep this thing with me for a very long time. If you like being all tied up, feel free to come back and try again, but I’m going to give you the suggestion that maybe if you would prefer not to get stuck like this again... don‘t come back. Alright? I don‘t care who you are, I don’t care what your deal is, I don’t care about any of that. I want my sleep back, and that’s it. I don’t have any beef with you, I don’t want to fight you, I don’t want to be mortal enemies or anything. I’m not going to hunt you down or whatever. No grudges or anything. I just want to sleep. And this thing seems to be capable of helping me not wake up in the middle of the night screaming. So... begone with you or whatever.”

You waved your hands at him in a ‘shooing’ manner, and he continued to tremble with rage. “To think you even could fathom to hunt me,” he spat, “is laughable at best. Hear me now, human. Your little ‘device’ may have saved you from my wrath in the realm of dreams. But should you ever cross my path again, I’ll not hesitate to destroy you. There will be no preamble. There will be no mercy. There will be no begging for your life. You will cease to exist.”

“But why,” you whined. “I didn’t even do anything! YOU showed up and bullied me in my sleep for weeks for no reason. I found a solution that isn’t even hurting you, told you that I’d set you free by banishing you back to wherever it is you come from once I wake up... and your reaction is to threaten me with imminent death!? What if I just... don’t ever free you, then? Hmm? Wouldn’t that be smarter of me? If the reward I get for finding the most peaceful resolution to all this is imminent death, then why bother with trying to find a way to release you!? Or... banish you. Cleanse the... the thing. What if I just go bury it somewhere instead? Wouldn’t that be better AND easier for me than trying to research how to release you?”

Nightmare seethes in his bonds, glaring at you with his one piercing cyan eye light, but you can see the wheels in his head turning. You only stumbled there in the end because if this guy is a real thing, you probably shouldn’t be telling him about what a dreamcatcher is. That seems to be your one deus ex machina at the moment and you definitely don’t want to give him information he can use against you later. The less he knows, the better. And if that means you look like an idiot that’s stumbled on something they don’t really know how to use, all the better. Because that might give the impression that maybe this is the minimum power this “device” might have, and if you knew more about it you could use it even MORE effectively. That’s not actually how it works, but you like giving the impression of that being a possibility.

“Fine,” he spits eventually.

“Fine?” You fold your arms over your chest. “Fine what?”

He growls lowly, a dangerous rumble that shakes your very soul. “Release me, and I shall trouble you no longer. I shall reward your... mercy... in kind, and depart peaceably.”

“You promise?”

His upper lip curls as if he’s smelled something particularly foul. “You have my word.”

You squint at him. He seems like the kind of being that trades in deals and favors often, but this Nightmare (literally) hasn’t exactly given you a lot of reasons to trust him at his word. “And what happens if I believe you and then you double cross me and come back for revenge later or something?”

He sputters again, indignant, and shakes in his chains. “I gave you my word! Do you have any idea of how rare a thing it is? How many beings across the multiverse have begged on their hands and knees for such an assurance?”

Even kneading at the space between your eyes isn’t doing much for expressing just how deeply conflicted you feel. “Alright. Alright. I’ll wake up. Find a way to purify this thing. Banish you back to where you belong and never see you again. But if I catch you in this thing again because you came back for revenge, I’m just going to bury it somewhere. You’ll be stuck in it until someone else comes along and stumbles on it, however long that might be. Got it?”

“I agree to your terms.”

The light filtering through the trees is taking on a more golden tone than silver and you shift to try to find its source. “Guess maybe it’s morning now?”

Nightmare doesn’t deign to respond to your rhetorical question, but you feel a little weird about just leaving without saying something. “Well, uh... I guess it was pretty cool to meet you in person after everything. Maybe stop doing that, though. The whole ‘terrorizing people’s dreams’ thing. Or at least just like... pick a different victim each night. Share the misery or something. Anyways. Uh... take care of yourself, ok?”

He rolls his eyes and groans in exasperation. “Just take your leave, for stars’ sake. Listening to your aimless prattling while trapped as I am is more punishment than I deserve.”

“Tch. Fine. Bye.”

You blinked awake, staring at your ceiling for a long moment while the memories of your dream clung to your consciousness. It was strange, actually. Usually you didn’t remember much about your dreams. Little snippets of moments here and there. But this one was actually sticking. And the fact that you could remember most of it had you looking down at your hand, where it was resting over your heart.

Huh. There really was something in your hand. You lifted it up and inspected it, half surprised but more intrigued that the very same dreamcatcher you’d dreamed about was held tightly in your palm. Well... it was mostly the same as it had been in your dream. Black ooze was tangled in the threads of the delicate weaving. THAT certainly hadn’t been there before. But it did look eerily like the iridescent slime that the Nightmare creature had been covered in. You touched a bit of it, and it moved, which made you jump. You tried again, and the goop flinched away.

“No way.”

You pinched and pulled a bit of it off of the fibers, and you jumped when it sounded like the slime made some teeny little sound of protest. “Oh hush,” you admonished, “I’m trying to get you out of there. I’m trying this first.”

It was wild to think that the Nightmare creature was so tiny. The amount of goop stuck in your dreamcatcher probably wouldn’t have even filled a thimble all the way, if you had one nearby to stick it in. He’d seemed so huge and powerful in your dreams. But, then again, this was the waking world and perhaps you couldn’t really expect everything to be exactly how it was when you were sleeping.

It took some effort, but after a few minutes you’d managed to remove most of the goop from the dreamcatcher. It trembled a little in your hand before stretching experimentally and wrapping around two of your fingers. It slipped, almost snake-like, in and around the gaps, like it was blindly trying to get a feel for the world around it. “Well, hello to you too.”

It was kindof cute, if you were being honest. And a little bit puzzling. You’d said you would purify the dreamcatcher (you vaguely remembered something from when you were a kid about putting them in direct sunlight) but you’d sort-of expected that all that would happen is you’d leave it in your window sill, and whatever banishing or purification was going to happen would happen in the dream world. You hadn’t expected the Nightmare creature to join you in the waking world. But then again, maybe it was better this way. Maybe this would give you some kind of visual cue as to when the banishing/purification had finished. Maybe the little blob creature would slowly vanish through the day or maybe it would suddenly disappear.

You picked up the dreamcatcher and moved to put it in the window, but startled a little bit to see more ooze seeping out of the threads. Ah. So... perhaps the rest of him was still in there, then. You plucked the new goobers of ooze out of the threads and they easily joined with the small mass in your hand. “Alright. Well. Clearly that’s not going to be enough to get you free, then. Let me do a quick internet search to make sure I’m doing this right and then we’ll get you out of there.”

The mass shifted a little, moving to your wrist where it wrapped around it like a bracelet before settling against your skin. You turned your hand a little to look at it from both sides, but it seemed like the goop was content to rest on your wrist, so you left it alone. A quick internet search revealed that you’d at least remembered somewhat correctly, though the few websites you’d found all talked about how the bad dreams or bad thoughts that had been captured in the dreamcatcher would be “destroyed with the light of the morning sun,” which seemed a little bit... harsher than you really wanted to be. But maybe that was just the phrasing some older website had used and everyone was just citing the same source (or each other.)

“Alright, little guy. Let’s see if this works.”

You took your dreamcatcher to your east-facing window and pulled up the blinds. The reaction was horrifically instantaneous. The goop bracelet constricted painfully tight and squealed, and the little beads of goop that had managed to leak out of the threads in the dreamcatcher during your internet started shriveling up with a soft hiss. Cursing, you yanked the hoop out of the sunlight and clutched it to your chest. Guilt and anxiety clawed their way up your throat and you whispered while furiously petting the slime still squeezing your wrist.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. We won’t do that. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, honest. I’m just doing what the research said, but if it’s hurting you then I’ll find something different to try. I’m sorry. Are you ok? Uhhhhh... Here!”

You rushed to your bathroom and turned your sink on cold, trickling it carefully over the bracelet and the beads of goop that had been affected by the sunlight as you continued to murmur your apologies. Slowly the goop on your wrist relaxed, and the knot of guilt in your chest eased a little.

Well... this was maybe going to take a little longer than you’d expected it would.

Nightmare was NOT going to be happy about that.

[[ You can read the rest of the fic on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/48671317 ]]

((Tagging @velvetwyrme because I was telling them about this fic idea the other day. If anyone who follows MothiePixie ends up reading this fic, I’ve been trying to be a little more active with other UTDR / UTMV blogs by commenting on posts and sending asks and stuff but uhhh, you’ve probably been seeing me around under the main blog name accioturtur - Hi! It’s me. Lol. This is the sideblog I’m using for UT stuff. AO3 is down for maintenance today but maybe at some point I’ll get this over there.))

Disclaimer: For anyone unfamiliar with Native American Dreamcatchers, there are actually several different versions of the beliefs surrounding them corresponding with the different tribes that use them. Some tribes believe that the webbed netting of the dreamcatcher actually captures GOOD dreams, to keep them close to you. Some tribes believe the net captures bad thoughts and dreams to keep them from troubling your mind. The different parts of the dreamcatcher are symbolic and very important to the cultures that use them. For the opening chapter of this idea, I only reference a couple of parts AND I will be the first to admit I’m taking a few artistic liberties for how the interaction in the Dream World might go down. This fic is just for Fandom Funsies - please only ever purchase dreamcatchers from actual Native American sources.

THAT SAID - the basic premise therefore could be used for either a Nightmare Gets Caught fic OR for a Dream Gets Caught fic, both of which have fun and silly implications. Since I’m blending the Dreamcatcher and Symbiote ideas, mine will be using Nightmare. Anyone is welcome to playing around with the idea, though!

THIS fic takes place about 50-100 years after The Tree and Dream is still trapped in stone. Nightmare is still trying to learn about his powers and his place in the multiverse and because he’s still a bit less experienced and on his own, he gets caught somewhere he really doesn’t *technically* have any business being in the first place.

#undertale fic #Dream Catcher Nightmare Snatcher #mothiepixie #symbiote nightmare

[doctor-fancy-pants]

That Researchin' Maritime Life

We've got a bit of downtime - there's a trawl going down to 5000m right now.

I've rotated and freshened up the sea cucumbers, packed away the echinoderms (starfish, sea cucumbers, sea urchins, brittle stars, feather stars and sea lilies), thrown a few buckets of seawater in the cold room (including the smaller pails seen below, I'm refining my holothurian rescue plans), and had a snack because This Machine, She Runs On Heavy Fuel.

This is actually a very comfortable ship to live on. Each cabin has a private ensuite, so you're not clambering down the bunk ladder and teetering out into the hall in search of the head in the middle of the night (I have been very spoilt and have only had one voyage like that). The mess has plenty of room at mealtimes. There are two lounges ("quiet" and "you're allowed to make noise and have informal meetings" respectively), and my favourite beanbags in the world.

There are, however, some drawbacks to marine research as a specialty (apart from the lack of job security, she says, as a short term contract taxonomist), and using a laboratory on a boat.

What drawbacks, you may ask.

Well, after my shift ends, I've been known to totter wearily into an online chat with mates and just drop random observations (you may note a somewhat laissez-faire attitude to punctuation).

For example:

you know it's amazing, you can be totally fine working in the dirty wet lab and you'll leave for five minutes and it's like your olfactory filters completely reset and then you get back down there and the nose is shouting at the brain "BOY HOWDY IT SURE DO SMELL LIKE FISHY PRAWNS IN HERE HUH JUST GOTTA SOAK IN THAT BRINY AMBIENCE"

summation: the science smells bad.

related outcome: the scientist also smells bad.

Yuuup, the smell is a whole freaking vibe. We can't dump too much seawater down the sinks that go into the grey water holding tank, we can't open the chute in the lab if there's an operation in progress (i.e. a trawl, a tow video, a Baited Remote Underwater Video, a fish trap) (which has been the case more often than not), and the same restriction is in place for simply tipping buckets over the side

That means that buckets of filthy seawater, sea cucumber guts, discarded excess critters, banged-up prawns and so on... just have to sit in the lab for a bit.

I've got a very sensitive nose. I have never been good at filtering out unpleasant smells, and yet somehow I kind of adapt to the lab odours... until I head up to the mess, and back down again.

(side note: we do actually clean the lab very thoroughly between trawls, and it does not smell all the time! It's more when you have to take a break in the middle of processing and then come back to it.)

What I do not adapt to is how bad I smell. By the end of the day, if I've been racing around in my coveralls, especially if I've been carrying heavy things, I will stink to high heaven.

(I will be quite self-conscious standing next to anyone.)

That shower is... so good.

But showering every day raises an issue. It's not what I normally do. Now, I realise there are some people who will find that horrifying (and most of them are from the US for some reason), but every second day, or when I need to wash my hair, or after a workout or, on a hot day? Yeah, that shower is good.

Every day? My poor skin is dryer than shoe leather, and I use a very gentle shower gel.

Shower Discord thoughts:

have been speculating on how one transitions from "I own body moisturiser but only occasionally remember to use it" as a terrestrial organism, to "I am pretty sure I could start a black market trade by subdividing this half-tube of Body Shop Hemp Hand Cream into small aliquots" as a person who is

1) at sea (the briny sea! The salty [drying] air!)

2) when not outdoors in the salty air, indoors in the drying A/C

3) regularly shoving one's hands into 100% ethanol and... usually... nearly always... wearing gloves while doing so

I mean this cream is the good shit

like basically liquid gold

which... could also be distributed in aliquots

okay. have decided: will not trade Body Shop Hemp Hand Cream for less than the equivalent volume of liquid gold

On later reflection, while I continue to believe that this asking price is fair, I may be pricing myself out of the market, if for no other reason than the simple lack of gold on board the vessel, regardless of phase.

I have decided that it doesn't have to be liquid. Melting gold on a moving vessel far off the continental shelf is an untenable safety risk. It just means that we will have to try to match the quantities by weight.

And that means using the scales in the clean wet lab, because the balances in our lab are not up to that sort of task.

And that means that I have definitely thought about this far too much, and I should go do something else (mainly clean my teeth and get ready for bed - need to get the energy for tomorrow's science-ing!).

We're still doing a fair bit of transiting and deeper sites, so I plan to try and knock out some taxonomic work on the few crinoids that have made it into the lab, and maybe set aside some time for the Sea Cucumber Salon.

Cukes gotta get their glamour shots, dammit.

#marine biology #boat thoughts #life at sea #holothurian naughty corner #RVInvestigator #Gascoyne2022 #liquid gold is a safety concern #safety first at sea #moisturiser economic analysis #marine biologists do not need to lick the science because smelling the science is quite enough thank you and goodnight

[benjaminthewolf]

Leon (Resident Evil) Lol

Yo, sorry I forgot to post something yesterday, test prep is fucking me hard right now. Anyway take this trade story I wrote sometime last week while in a panicked time crunch rush. Take the result as it is.

****

Leon was most certainly not the first protagonist character in Fandom City to be in this situation, and unless the literal universe itself was set to implode in on itself tomorrow, there was absolutely no way he would be the last.

A couple of overhead street lights occasionally sputtered and flashed in order to illuminate the path through the moonless night as Leon’s shoes clopped with considerable heaviness in each step. Heaving along a significantly over-burdening and downright nerve-stammering inner turmoil which softly simmered in jittering fury beneath the veil of the poor man’s exterior, Leon stomped with a detectable sense of physical laboriousness in his movement across the urban Fandom City streets. Shakily taking in and out each breath of contemplation of his trauma, Leon bit aggressively down on his lip and gave an audible, yet internal fume of pure rage.

Even for a man who had gone through as much shit as he had, this so inscrutable, animosity-laced sight was in actuality, rather unusual for Leon to be in, as normally, despite the absolutely fucked up experiences he had gone through, he was known by all his friends and acquaintances to be quite amenable and cheery. To see such a man in so poignant of a fuming, pent up, boiling anger, then, could mean only a few things. And one would only need to view the situation through the literal two eyes of Leon’s face in order to pin on a specific answer.

“Rammmmmmooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn……” Leon breathily droned out through clenched teeth.

“....erm…yes. That’s my name. What about it?” the snarky antagonist to Leon cockily responded with a flair.

And then, just like that, Leon boiled over.

****

“MRRRNGHHHHH!” Ramon attempted to screech out in terror whilst Leon clasped his hands over his mouth. Leon had moved the situation over to a nearby alley by this point, and had merely been awaiting for his nemesis to wake back up.

“Ohhhhhhh….is this gonna be fun or WHAT?” Leon positively spat out onto the writing man beneath him. “THIS time, I’m gonna get my FUCKING recompence! You. Are gonna PAY for EVERY SINGLE FUCKING THING YOU HAVE done to me!”

Leon swiftly moved his hands to Ramon’s sides in order to properly grab ahold of his arms and prevent him from retaliating, leaving Ramon once again able to speak. Leon didn’t really care anymore whether he screeched out for help, as in this part of Fandom City nobody really cared if someone was dying in the first place.

“YOU really have some fucking NERVE showing up in this part of the city at night!” Leon continued on with his tirade. “What, were you just fucking ASKING for this to happen or some shit? Are you really that much of a duncehead or were you just so fucking full of shit that you actually thought you would get out scott-free?”

Still instinctively writing between Leon’s aggressive, grasping hands, Ramon gagged and choked a while, in order to get his windpipe reset and able to speak once again.

“Well I didn’t have any clue you’d be here!” he desperately attempted to rationalize to Leon. “And what are you even planning on doing to me, anyway? None of it’ll make what’s happened to you in the past just magically disappear from reality-”

“SAY THAT AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKER!” Leon instantly snarled out to Ramon’s statement whilst ruthlessly slamming his chest into the pavement. “SAY IT AGAIN!”

All Leon got in response was a light, constricted, pained wheeze out of air as Ramon’s battered body positively spasmed from the sudden shock.

Heaving out a controlled sigh, Leon finally spoke up again. “Now…here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to shut up, you are going to take everything in and let it soak up into your brain cells, and lastly, you are NOT, I repeat, NOT, going to resist it, at all! In any way, shape, form, or whatever you can imagine! Nothing! AND! If you DON’T feel like following these rules, then I’ll do a nice little thing called RIPPING YOUR NUTS OF WITH MY TEETH, DO YOU HEAR?”

Ramon could only stay silent.

“Good. Seems you do have capacity for basic fucking comprehension after all!” Leon quipped out to his trapped enemy. “And now…here I go.”

With an inane, cathartic grin on his face that lead nicely into the unveiling of his pink, slimy maw, Leon casually lowered himself to the ground where Ramon lay, and promptly slid his tongue across his despondent rival’s cheek, trailing a warm, sticky layer of saliva with a shuddering, heated heave of his breath.

Leon could most definitely detect it upon his drooling buds, and subsequently moved in for another sample. Yes, he knew that taste quite well. Raw, undistilled, pure fear. Something so rare and delectable that it took a considerable amount of self-control not to shove it all into his mouth all at once and let it flow down into his taste buds up to his brain. Yet Leon also knew that it wouldn’t be doing him any good to delay the inevitable for any longer, even if it played well onto his rival’s shattered mind, and therefore resigned himself at last to stretch his jaws as wide as he could in order to violently shove Ramon’s head deep inside.

Now that he had the man’s head and neck within his jaws, Leon was free to stroke his tongue up and down the man’s face, positively slathering both of his cheeks as well as his hair with his sticky saliva. Positively soaking up the taste in full, Leon eventually maneuvered the man’s head back towards his pharynx region.

Opening up the gaping gullet just as wide as it possibly could manage to go, Leon maintained a firm grasp upon the arms of the man he so loathed as he inched his face forwards and towards the wide drop. With poor Ramon’s hair brustling up against Leon’s uvula, Leon on the outside knew that he now only needed to tilt his head back just slightly further, and then allow gravity to do the rest. Proceeding to accomplish just that, Leon would stall for no longer.

Squelching Ramon’s head through his upper esophageal sphincter, a nice, round, and sizable bulge formed inside of Leon’s throat as the midsection of the poor man became inserted into the maw as a result. Leon allowed a little drool to trickle on down and to the alley floor as he swallowed once more with a pleased shudder. Ramon on the inside could feel the tight walls squeezing in before releasing as he now suddenly realized that he could sense Leon’s wildly thumping, ectatic heart.

Finally, Leon swallowed for the third, and final needed time, before casually plopping himself up against the wall of the alley, now merely waiting for the inevitable filling of his growling stomach.

Ramon, meanwhile, was just simply far too clocked out to be able to do or say anything. Instead, he merely remained still and obeyed what each squelching seemed to tell him was currently his destiny at Leon’s hands.

Eventually, Ramon reached the lower esophageal sphincter. The subsequent shoving forth of his head was what told Leon on the outside that the bulging was just about to happen.

A utterly cathartic sensation of bliss practically shot its way up the man’s spine as his stomach bulged outwards in order to house Ramon’s form. An audible deep goopy gurgle ran through the empty alley as Leon lay both hands upon the rumbling, rotund, shifting gut.

Ramon, now cradled against the hot, slimy, slick walls of Leon’s stomach, was waist deep in the liquids sloshing around. Due to being so far removed from reality for the moment, Ramon was still subconsciously able to sense that for whatever reason, Leon had decided not to digest him for now. Perhaps this was to further instill the sensation of terror, maybe he wanted to make sure he knew where Ramon was for quite a while. Maybe it was a combination, or maybe it was something else. Who knew? Certainly not Ramon.

Thus, as Leon calmly patted and rubbed over his stomach , he loosely allowed his dripping tongue to loll floppily out of his mouth. There was only one singular thing bouncing through the utterly euphoria-high-driven mind of the man in that moment. One, simple, single thought. That thought being, of course:

“Fuck Ramon.” and nothing else.

#vore writing #vore stories #vore story #soft vore #safe vore #male pred #male vore #male predador #male prey #m/m vore #human pred #human prey #human vore #same size vore #v0re #v0r3 #v.ore #vor3 #v/ore #unwilling prey #unwilling vore #vore fic

[orchidcharm]

okie florist x tattoo artist jakemuel then 📝

🌼

"just do whatever," jake scoffs at samuel's hesitation. "'s not my first time."

"not your first time?" he responds teasingly, but without looking his latest customer. samuel's too busy going through pages of different tattoo designs, wondering which of them are pretty enough to mar jake's skin. "that sucks, i really hoped i was your first."

he wished jake didn't hear it. after all, pretty boy's fixated on his phone and taking orders for flower arrangements. jake's too rough to be a florist, samuel thought at first. but up close, he's able to see how dainty jake's hands are – soft, smooth, veiny, just the right amount of nimble to handle flowers. god, he's thankful to be tattooing him now.

"artist's block?"

"what?"

"you've been staring too long at my hand. no good designs come to mind?" samuel thinks he's getting dizzy. jake's turned his full attention on him, and the tattoo studio's never been brighter. samuel's unable to respond.

"honestly i thought you were gonna go for something childish, or something like this," jake takes samuel's wrist and traces the cowboy emoji tattoo samuel had when he lost a bet. "it's actually good you're tryna think this through, yeah?"

it's funny, because samuel wasn't thinking it through. there's just no way he's able to function when jake's in his presence, even more touching him. he's forgot to put his guards up.

sure, he could flirt his way out of this like he always does. but why would he? with the way the sunlight passes through the studio's window and touches jake's features the right way — there's no way he's gonna trade anything for this view. pride comes later.

he spends few more minutes browsing as jake takes a client call.

"found it," samuel says right when jake comes back, "the thing i wanna tattoo on you."

🌼

"you didn't lie about it," samuel takes a water break. the design he chose wasn't complicated, at all. t'was just hard when he gotta tatt while keeping himself in check.

"lie 'bout what?"

"this not being your first time. you barely moaned." samuel teases.

but jake's an immovable force. instead of feeling embarrassed, he tilts his head to the side and stares at samuel. "should i moan for you? you'd like that?"

samuel thinks this shit's unfair. he can pass it off as some silly joke and pay no heed to the man in front of him. he's just tryna do his job, so why, why, why, does he feel the need to stare back at jake? this was coercion.

they lock eyes. no one dares say a word.

meow. thankfully ryuhei's stupid cat was there to break the silence, the unwanted tension. he'll beat himself up for being so whipped later.

work first.

🌼

"ain't no way," jake holds in a chuckle. he stares at his wrist, checking what kind of art samuel's immortalizing on his skin. "flowers, because i'm a florist?"

"flowers because you're a florist," samuel says it back.

he's clearly not in the mood to bicker, eyes focused on the work he's doing. his lips already swollen from being bitten again and again, and he hopes nobody thinks of it as anything. save for the boner he's been trying to hide, he's just an artist tryna concentrate. yup.

🌼

they're finally at that stage – finishing touches.

it means samuel's concentration has worn off already. now he's hyperaware that their skin are touching, and if this were any other man he'd be fine. but it's jake kim. his high school wet dreams personified. fuck this, he just wants to finish. finish work, that is.

"i don't hate it," jake lets out a comment. he really didn't talk much throughout the entire thing, and samuel felt him stare at him a few times as he was inking jake's wrist, but he was resolved to pay no heed to it. boners come later, remember?

"you shouldn't," he's now cleaning up the tatt, full attention to wiping it down. this would've been a normal tattoo session if only jake's winces didn't echo on his brain. "like, why would you hate it? i didn't do badly at all. looks good to me."

"no, no, tatt is good..."

"yep, tatt is good. i did that."

"i don't hate it, you being corny like this," jake points at the tattoo. "i admire you being romantic and all, but you should've known you were talking to a florist."

and samuel's sitting there in his full tattoo artist aesthetic glory — leather vest, ripped jeans, black boots — flustered. it was at this moment he knew he was dumb.

he didn't think it through. fuck.

"gardenias, secret love." jake really just called him out like that. samuel didn't even have the wits to feign ignorance. time just stopped.

but in that moment, something bloomed. just like a fated scene in any disney movie, wind blows at the right time in the tattoo studio.

it smelled of flowers. such a strong floral scent lingered the air. jake, the florist that he is, looks in the direction of where the flowers are.

"oh."

samuel stares at the flowers. he didn't even notice jake brought anything when he entered the studio. but he knows it's from jake, all too familiar with the flower shop's branding and style.

"gardenias too."

i got tired to finish properly

ty 4 prompt i love u @nivotron

#samuel seo #jake kim #lookism #i am dumb with tags tbh #jakemuel #? #writingpractice #prompt

[gamebird]

I'm reading this book called Thinking Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman. I'm actually reading the Audible version but a quick google turned up a YouTube full audio version if anyone wanted to check it out without Amazon being involved. It was recommended by a coworker and I picked it up hoping it would help me understand how to make my brain work better, given the intermittent brain fog.

It's not that kind of book. It's more about the way people think, what biases we have and what fallacies we fall prey to on a systematic scale. There aren't really fixes for this, any more than there's a fix for being the height that you are or dying of old age. It's just a thing about people.

I have not listened to it under the best of circumstances. I've been sick off and on over the last two weeks, recovering from jet lag, and it's been busy both at work and at home. So while he talks, and I hear the words, I can't say I've always been listening (or maybe it's the opposite, where I'm listening but not necessarily hearing). Either way, my retention and understanding haven't been great.

Which is fine, because like I said, the book isn't giving me what I wanted it for. It's still interesting. Kahneman was a young man at the start of Israel and had a role in the psychology division of their military, crafting interviews for recruits to sort them and how to best judge candidates for officer training. When you're doing something like that, you want to do it right. What he found was that their efforts were no better than random chance. When he took human interviewers out of the equation and used simple ratings of objective performance or past accomplishments, they realized a slight improvement over random chance.

This ended up being something of a trend in his professional life. He would tackle things where people thought they were in control of a process, with their actions making a difference and improvement in things, then show they were either making no difference, or unwittingly sabotaging the process with biases.

Stock traders, for example. Since he was a big deal in the circles of decision-making psychology, a big stock trading firm wanted him to talk to them. He got 8 years of trading information on their various traders, who were all paid by performance so they had tracked this carefully. He went through it in detail. None of them were better than random noise. Even the ones who were hot pickers for a year or two would even out and be revealed to have had the usual lucky streak that happens. Just as the ones who were lousy pickers for a year or two would turn it around and have some good years. This wasn't because they'd learned anything. It was just normal statistics.

He showed this to the firm's management. They were very, 'Oh? Hm. Yes, interesting,' didn't act surprised, and changed nothing at all about their process as a result.

(This is a fascinating intersection with another book I read recently, Bullshit Jobs, which talked about how there are a lot of jobs and sometimes entire professions who accomplish jack shit but are still employed to fill a seat and pretend. Stock traders are one of them. The author of Bullshit Jobs was mystified as to why this happened, because from what he could tell, the upper management knew in many cases their subordinates were unnecessary. So it's intriguing to see here that one of the foremost experts in how to think told upper management to their faces their subordinates were bullshit, and they went right on employing them.)

So much stuff we think we control is just random. Listening to this book has scared me about my retirement portfolio, most of which is invested in stocks. Because it means my wealth manager's stellar performance in the last year is likely a fluke. I believe it is - because he's been unable to explain adequately to me what he's done in the last year that's different from previous years of poorer performance. And so I need to be sure I'll still be able to survive retirement on a baseline income instead of the returns I've been getting the last year. (I checked; I'm fine.)

Also, experts are less trustworthy than anyone else on most of this stuff. Your most reliable person in a field has been in the field for a few years, is not publicly acclaimed, and isn't listened to. Perversely, if people are seeking out your advice and acting on it, your advice is almost certain to get worse. Human bias drags your predictions toward extremes and unlikely events that garner more attention, and if people have lauded you as an expert, then they will downplay your failures or accept your (or even make up themselves) excuses for why you were wrong "this time".

It's a mind-boggling dilemma. All those people who feel like no one ever listens to them and the experts are fucked up? Are entirely right. However, if you swapped them with the experts, then in short order they'd be fucked up and the former experts, now humbled and sidelined, would start making better predictions.

It's a 20+ hour book and I'm 2/3rds through it. There's a lot of good stuff in it.

But no, it's not going to help with brain fog. In good news, and just as random as everything else, the brain fog has been gone for the last several days anyway. That's been nice!

#mundane

[ode2rin]

us again 🙁🙁🙁🙁 it was actually so good i’m so glad you decided to pick it up again THANK YOU FOR SHARING TJAT WITH US DONT EVER LEAVE PLSKDJFB

Anyway i will send a long ask about quotes i liked because i need to express my awe and support and compliment U because omg. what.

After all, everything here in this town is about you and him. 

i like how you decided to set it in a town instead of just saying smth like city or whatever, because i find it more like … romantic? and YES the way we rot in his memories he’s never getting rid of us we are his childhood and literally 19 years of his life t-t THE OTHER HALF OF HIS HEART (like u said).

And deep down, he didn’t want to believe it either – until that day you decided not to show up when you promised you would.

OUCH. the paragraphs before this one too i love the way you portrayed his coping to himself and how much of an effect we had on him 😭😭 at first i was like wrf i can’t believe we ghosted him like that but after reading the letter i would definitely do the exact same thing i’m ngl 😭😭

A thousand emotions danced in his eyes, each one a testament to the love that once blossomed between you.

i love it when they can’t ever forget about us. the use of the word blossom makes it seem like such a temporary thing and it just screams highschool romance because flowers don’t blossom often (like what… once a year or smth???) and that’s like saying our love blossomed and was peak in the past and idk what i’m saying but i hope yk what i’m saying and i hope i’m not misinterpreting ur work LOL but i just had to sauce this one in here too

In this universe, you're just some two ghosts standing in the place of you and him, haunted by the memories of what once was while trying to remember what it feels to have a heartbeat.

the alternate universe comparison I EAT IT UP ALWAYS BUT IVE NEVER SEEN ANYONE USE GHOST BEFORE TO DESCRIBE IT AND IM JUST LIKE WHAT YOURE SO SMART !!! HAUNTED BY MEMORIES TOO?? MIMI IS SO BIG BRAIN

while you share a kiss as greedy and fiery as the sea’s yearning for the moon.

the sea’s yearning for the moon that’s all.

I would’ve traded all my tomorrows for just one yesterday with you.

now this is genius. traded the tomorrows aka trading your entire future and dream and careers just for one moment in your fleeting highschool teenage romance with sae that was left in the past ……. 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

so yeah. i love your writing lots and i’m glad we’re moots<3 thank you mimi!!!!! and thanks for listening to my little rant tehe

yumi. YUMI. i would really really really love to hug you right now like this INSTANT (ಥ﹏ಥ)

the fact that you even took the time to go over the whole fic (ik it's a lot bit ._.) is enough to make me go ➡️ o(〒﹏〒)o btw i can't even start to articulate better word to tell you how thankful i am. YOU CAN HAVE A HUNDRED MANGOES FROM ME PLEASE 🥭

let me go over your fave quotes (that made my heart go swell btw wdym i have quotes now) AAAAAAA

➼ the small town !! let me telle you something, i actually love small town romance like a not so normal amount, it's prolly included in my top 5 tropes pls. i just love it when the other leaves and the other stays and by fate, they just meet again to rekindle what was once their shared memories. childhood friends to lovers is nice but if it's small town? NOM NOM I LOVE IT i've always wanted to try writing it and who's a better choice to try than our mr. i went to spain right here (even if it's not fullblown focus on that trope..)

➼ THE LETTER AHSJKAJSHAJ ngl, i would also do the same thing .. i just think sae is the kind to hold grudges lmao he definitely held MASSIVE hatred for not showing up

➼ i like using the word blossom in describing past love sometimes because (1) i love flowers, (2) it's a one time thing aka seasonal and it fits characs that yknow will fall in love once or twice in their whole life and that's it, (3) and lastly, it's temporary and it passes like time.. I LOVE YOU YUMI YOU REALLY GET ME I'M GIVING YOU SMOOCHES RN

➼ two ghost is actually a song !! i love that song so much (rumor has it that it's about taylor swift since she's harry's ex 👀) i've been listening to it and got inspired by the lyrics <3

➼ there's this children bed time story my friend told me abt that the reason why there are high tides is bec of a prince imprisoned in the sea and the moon was actually a goddess that he got punished for loving? and everytime the tide is high it means he's trying to reach for the goddess I CAN'T REMEMBER BUT THAT WAS THE STORY BEHIND IT and i decided to use it bec damn that story is the definition of yearning come on..

➼ now that line.. i was making pancakes when i thought of that oh my god and i reached out to the nearest paper i could find bec what if it leaves my mind 😭 ngl i love love love that :(

it's ME who should be glad 🫂 i'm glad i wrote make you mine bec it led u to MEEEEEEEE (iirc we became moots bec of it :>)

#yumi (affectionately) #yumi (lovingly) #yumi (saying your name with hearts in my eyes) #letters to mimi ✿ #letters from: yumi 🤞 #mimi keeps! 💟

[alovelyburn]

It’s an old ask and can’t find it rn but just imo grifflotte is miserable. Griffith, even with all of his power, is again in a way “forced” to use his body and charms to achieve his goal, something we see quite a lot happening in his youth and being his big issue. He has everything that should allow him to actually make his dream come true, but he still needs to pay a prize for it. I’m not saying it’s the same as Gennon, but the theme is always there. Charlotte being happy is also not the best? Like, I think it’s mostly narrative fault and the way women are presented in the story, but it is so sad. She is happy because she is manipulated into that happiness and lives through fantasy of some kind. And I hate how it can be interpreted as positive. And I do think theres a big chance we gonna see a child too, but I hate the idea of that kid inheriting Griffith kingdom and being destined to rule it, without the baggage (quite popular theory in normal side of the fandom) instead of an actual princess with good ideas who should already have much more growth tbh. It’s like her character ultimately gets turned into just incubator for the next cycle. Not the worst fate in berserk but I hate it so much. Women in berserk are better-ish than most characters we used to but that don’t make them good. But hey, that’s just me wanting more

All right, I think I get where you're coming from now. It's just not how my head works, so I had to kind of adjust my perspective a little. When someone says a relationship is miserable my assumption is that they mean the characters are miserable, but it seems more like commentary on the type of relationship it is. Sort of similar to the child/heir thing - less about the story supporting it than that you perhaps find the turn unsatisfying or undesirable from the perspective of what you'd rather see. I might still be off base, feel free to correct me. But yeah, I mean I'm not here to argue with people's preferences, it is what it is.

From my own perspective...

I do think Griffith pre-eclipse seemed to perceive his relationship with Charlotte as being in the same vein (not to the same degree) as his encounter with Gennon in the sense that he was once again "paying" for something he needed by trading his... body (and the performance of affection in Charlotte's case) for that thing. I think this is part of the reason for his post-coital breakdown with her - this sense that he had lost someone he loved and wanted and is now left with this person that he will always feel he is "selling" himself to on some level.

Honestly, even allowing the Godhand to destroy the remnants of his human flesh and carve his heart out in exchange for his ascension is in some ways just the extreme end of what he's always done: giving away pieces of himself in exchange for things he needs in order to accomplish his goals. Even the external sacrifice is described as needing to be something that is essentially so loved as to become a part of the person making the sacrifice.

"Take hold of the world in exchange for their own flesh and blood," as they say.

And I do think that is incredibly tragic - he's a tragic character. Absolutely. I'm just not sure whether that's something Griffith cares about at all post-eclipse due to the destruction and reconstruction of his emotional world.

Anyway, I'm of two minds about the whole thing because... I've written at some length about my frustration with Casca, the way her character is constructed and the motivations she's given. Yet, at the same time, if I think about what could/should happen with her character, I can only do that from the reality of what she is in the story rather than a hypothetical about what I would have made her or would have preferred her to be.

Plus my writer brain is stronger than my fan brain, so when I think about things like this I always think about them as being one of many moving parts within a narrative. So I think things like, if Charlotte were the sort of character to take over like a boss after her father passed away then the whole story about Griffith courting her so he can run a country makes no sense. That being the case, she's designed to be a person who doesn't do that because... that's just the role she has in the story.

All that said, and now I'm just continuing to talk about this grifflote child concept as though I'm invested in it and I just akjnakjnsd like I'm REALLY NOT I'm just thinking from a narrative perspective since it keeps coming up...

Let's say she has a kid, and then Griffith dies.

The kid would be like... an infant. So wouldn't she need to step up anyway?

ETA: And I have no idea what the mainstream western fandom is doing aside from performatively spitting fire every time Griffith's name is mentioned. Still, they can't be wrong all the time. Stopped clocks and all that.

#ask #anonymous #ariel talks about berserk #fandom has taught me that my approach to fiction is strange #but eh

[mushiewrites]

can I just be sappy for a moment about 2022? It was so shitty for a multitude of reasons but you guys made it better ):

firstly everyone that interacts with my posts, i love u and appreciate u so much ): if i didn’t have people interacting, i wouldn’t really have a reason to want to keep writing.

but there are some very cool and lovely people I want to fawn over and just say a few things about 🫠

thank u to:

@an-inkling-of for hyping up my writing and always encouraging me to be mean (hehehe 😈)

@elliot-tword for being one of the first people i remember being so kind and supportive when i first started out writing

@fluffy-fics for making LITERAL BEAUTIFUL ART FROM MY FICS / DRABBLES???????? still so honored tbh 🥺💕

@sleepy--anon + @azuregiggles + @starshinenova for providing the best hc’s i’ve ever seen and allowing me to run wild with them 👀

@amitlee for being my enemy, one of my favorite people to bully/be bullied by, and also one of the best people i’ve gotten to meet on this hell site 🔥

I have a million more people I could thank, so if you weren’t mentioned, just know I love u and appreciate you. I want to tag you all 🥺

I hope every has an incredible 2023, it’s gonna be great I can feel it ✨

(okay i’m putting the longer ones under here…..this is going to be SAPPY sappy - this is your warning)

@cayjno - my baby jworm ): i don’t even know what to write for you. i went from freaking out in the best way over your fics to getting to be so close with you and i am still confused as to how????? i have no idea why but i was so nervy to speak with you bc u were just so COOL to me and i was scawwed. i remember the night we had our first real conversation, i was just so hype that you were as cool as i thought, probably even more so. you are one of the most kindest and sweetest humans i’ve ever met. i am so so thankful to know you and get to be in your life. you make me feel so safe, you never ever throw judgement on me and i am so grateful for that. i don’t ever feel scared telling you things because i know you’re not going to look at me differently for it. you also don’t let me brain run with bad things - you normally tell me straight up how something is if i seem to be going a different direction than what actually is happening in situations where that might normally happen. you are just such a lovely support person. we are so comfortable with each other and i love doing stupid things with you. you are so extremely talented in so many ways (i will never have another wallpaper that isn’t a juno drawing ever again btw). u are absolutely adorable and i adore you and your art and your writing and just skdndjdndjsj i love you ): i can’t wait until we invent teleporting so i can hug you for a million years ): i love u so much mouse 💕

@covenofwives - I literally stayed hyperfixated on The Blame Game for m o n t h s. you are SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL. the first few times we spoke i was so hype because you were so kind! we’ve gotten to be such nice little fwens and i love that for us ): we have our own little bobbi duo! i love when we exchange art and wips, it makes me feel so nice that you allow me to see your creations before they’re finished. you are so insanely talented as well, i’m still so hype that you drew Big Challenges on the beach just enjoying his day. you and your feathers are the cutest things EVER, i can’t wait to keep our cute lil friendship growing! i love and appreciate u and ur kindness always 🥺💕

and last but definitely not least

@awkwardtickleetoo - my lil baby puppy knight. the other half of puppyduo. mr bones. i could list everything we’ve ever called each other here but it would need to be a whole new post tbh. i adore you. you already know this. i remember being nervy to speak to you too, but god am i glad we started bc here we are now, months later and clingy as heck. we are the cutest little besties and i wouldn’t trade our weird little freaky conversations for anything. thank you for always bouncing ideas around with me or reading things if i need to know if things sound okay. i love that we don’t gatekeep, and i love that we bully each other about the embarrassing things we share. i love that we’ve resorted to using mostly pet-names for each other, and i love the ones you give me (all of them are good but you know my favorites 🥺) i love that we don’t EVER judge each other and i don’t ever second guess it when i tell you things that fluster me. you’re always so kind (and mean) in the best way and you are just such a lovely person. you, just like everyone else on this list are so extremely talented. you know i binge your fics and fawn over the shit you say all the time. i am very clearly cal stan #1. i actually could keep going but this would end up being very long and repetitive, but it’s all true. love you, idiot. 💕

#mushie speaks #i just love my friends okay #i am feeling sappy today #genuinely though #if i didn’t tag you just know that i dO love you #so so many of you that i’m thankful for #just know if i see you in my notifs i love you i love you i LOVE YOU #and if ur a lurker too???? i STILL LOVE YOU #an inkling of #elliot tword #fluffy fics #sleepy anon #azuregiggles #starshinenova #cayjno #covenofwives #awkwardtickleetoo #i love all of u sm

[mycoolwritingcorner]

A Tense Situation

Written For Sailor Moon Platonic Week.

Day 5: Body Swap.

----

Minako sighed as she rubbed her temple in frustration, “So, what did we learn about listening to your leader when she says, ‘Wait for backup’?” she said looking at Ami and Rei, whose bodies had been swapped in a confrontation with a monster, sitting on Rei’s bed.

The Inner Guardians fell back to the Hikawa Shrine after the monster had retreated to discuss what to do from here.

“I said the same thing!” Ami in Rei’s body said, “Rei was the one who charged in.”

“Hey, don’t go throwing me under the bus! It could’ve hurt someone!” Rei in Ami’s body argued.

“We were the only ones around!” Ami refuted.

“Man, it’s no fair that this happened to you two!” Usagi said.

“Thanks, Usagi, I-” Ami began to say, before being cut off.

“I mean, do you have any idea what I would give to trade brains with Ami?” Usagi said, crossing her arms in a huff, “Rei already has good grades anyway!”

Makoto smacked Usagi in the back of the head in frustration, “Not the point, Usagi!”

“Owww!”

“Regardless, Ami, you said the readings you took said that this should be undone when the monster is destroyed, right?” Minako asked.

“I’m Rei, Mina, that’s Ami.” The now blue-haired Rei said, pointing at Ami.

“Oh, right, right.”

“That’s correct. So I guess we’ll just have to wait it out.” Ami said, looking a bit anxious.

“Well, if that’s the case, how about you all head home. Ami can stay here tonight so we can make sure we’re both prepared if we end up having to go to school for one another.” Rei said, standing up from her bed.

“Alright. We’ll let you guys know if anything comes up.” Mina said, before she, Usagi, and Mako took their leave.

Almost immediately after they left the now raven-haired Ami began rummaging through her bookbag, “Well, I guess first I should get you acquainted with my class schedule. Thankfully I keep a copy of it on me at all times, just in case. Also, we should-”

“Yeah yeah, before we get into that, I wanted to talk to you about something else.” Rei said, rubbing her left shoulder with her right arm.

“Oh? What is it?” Ami asked, tilting her head.

“Well, I didn’t wanna bring this up in front of the others but… your body, it’s so… tense.” Rei said, opening and closing her fists.

“Oh, I guess it is. I suppose I had just gotten used to it, but I will say there was a noticeable difference when I got sent into your body.” Ami said, touching her finger to her chin.

“Wait! Are you telling me this is how you feel… all the time?” Rei asked, concerned.

“Well, I wouldn’t say all of the time, just… y’know… most of the time.” Ami said sheepishly.

“That’s really not good, Ami.” Rei said, approaching the girl.

“It’s fine, really.” Ami said, looking down at the floor, “It helps me stay on top of things.”

“I think our doctor in training should know that that’s a terrible way to look at it.” Rei said, looking at Ami, who was still avoiding eye contact, “Alright, c’mon.” Rei said, grabbing Ami’s wrist and dragging her to the center of the room.

“What? What are you doing?” Ami asked.

“I’m going to teach you some techniques for this, you clearly need them.” Rei explained, sitting down on the floor and crossing her legs.

“What? No, we don’t have time for-”

“That type of thinking is exactly why your body is wound so tight it feels like it could snap if I move it wrong. C’mon, if nothing else you owe it to me so you don’t do this to my body too. Now sit down.” She instructed, pointing down at the floor in front of her.

Ami reluctantly complied, sitting down and crossing her legs, “Okay, great, now what?”

“This is a technique my grandpa taught me. I want you to close your eyes, and clear your mind.” Rei said, before closing her eyes, “It’s alright if you can’t get it completely cleared, that’s perfectly normal, especially for a beginner.”

“Mmhm, got it.” Ami said, closing her eyes, clearly just wanting to get this over with.

“Ami, this isn’t going to help you if you don’t actually try.” Rei said, calmly.

“Alright, alright.”

“Good. I’ve found a way that helps is to imagine a clear blue sky, and whenever you have a thought pop into your head to distract you, just imagine it as a cloud floating by. Now, I want you to try to identify the place where the tension is stemming from. Oftentimes it’s in your gut, but (as you well know) it can spread out across the body.” Rei informed, trying to do this herself, although it was difficult while leading another person.

“Okay…” Ami said, seeming to be going along with the exercise.

“Alright, now take some deep breaths, in…” Rei said, inhaling slowly, “... and out…” She said as she exhaled, repeating this a few times, “And as you’re doing this, I want you to envision the tension leaving your body, like dark energy leaving your body after we defeat a monster.”

Ami giggled at the comparison, but did as she was instructed, “Alright.” She said, inhaling and exhaling a few more times.

Rei walked her through some more breathing techniques and mental tricks before she decided Ami was well equipped, at least for now, to deal with this on her own.

“Alright, you did really good, Ami.” Rei said, looking at Ami with a smile (although she’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel a bit weird about congratulating herself).

“Thank you, Rei. I’m sorry for being so resistant to this, it’s just… with so much going on, school, Sailor stuff… this,” She said, gesturing at herself and Rei, “It’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Everyone needs a reminder to slow down from time to time.” Rei said nonchalantly, “But make sure you do these exercises at least semi-frequently. We’d be in a real pinch if the brain of our group was out of commission because she worked herself into a frenzy.” She said with a smile.

“Okay, okay, I’ll remember. And… thanks again, Rei. Or should I say, Ami?” Ami said with a smirk.

“Yeah, no, absolutely not. We’re not doing that.”

----

Anyway then they beat the monster and went back to normal the end.

And that does it for Day Five. Come back tomorrow for Day 6: Tea. 

But until then, please let me know what you thought! Comments, reblogs, likes, etc. are much appreciated!

And until next time, take care everyone!

#smplatonic #Ami Mizuno #Rei Hino #Sailor Mercury #Sailor Mars #Sailor Moon #Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon