#try figuring out what the fuck the colour description pale means

[werewolfashton]

four horsemen of the apocalypse moodboard

luke as the fourth horseman symbolising death

#luke as death is my fav take #it was also annoying though #try figuring out what the fuck the colour description pale means #just do it #have fun #actually some sources say greenish but idgaf #moodboard #mine #spooky season moodboards #four horsemen of the apocalypse #four horsemen moodboard #luke hemmings #luke hemmings edit #5sos edit #scythe tw #weapon tw #graveyard tw

[the-queen-of-fools]

Good Vibes Only

Word count: 1445 Pairing: Dave York x gn!reader (no y/n, no descriptions of reader, no pronouns) Rating: 18+ Warnings: smut, D/s, sub!Dave, swearing, ass play, butt plug use, vibrator use, remote control toy, edging, orgasm delay, handjob, public play, explicit descriptions, AU (no Carol or kids), soft!Dave.

A/N: sub!Dave York lives in my brain, and heart, rent free. All BDSM activities should be safe, sane, and consensual between 2 (or more) adults. I have written this as if it were a real situation, within a long term relationship where non verbal cues are known and are recognised. Please note: A Dominant has a responsibility to look after a submissive, including paying attention to signs that something in play is too much, even when a sub does not use their safe words. I also wrote and rewrote the debrief section multiple times, and in reality it would be more in depth. I feel it’s a little bit clunky, but it’s important to be there, which is why it’s left in even with me not being perfectly happy with it. Don’t take this fic as a guide or gospel. However, if someone ignores your limits and/or use of a safe word, that is always abuse.

And, of course, don’t steal my work, repost it, or claim it as your own.

— — —

@silverwolf319, @caesaryoulater, @anxiousandboujee, @wyn-dixie, @aliengxrl, @rav3n-pascal22, @green-socks, @dragcn-queen, @buttercup–bee, @chasingdreamer, @amneris21, @sugarontherims, @kesskirata, @ravensmutty, @dindjarinneedsahug, @allmahfeels, @phoenix-of-loki, @cookiecat22, @rrtxcmt, @mouthymandalorian, @danniburgh, @alleycat5135, @callsigncatfish, @djarinsbeskar, @asta-lily, @the-ginger-hedge-witch, @agentalpha, @disgruntledspacedad

— — —

Dave squirms in his seat. He frowns, and clenches his fist, the tension turning his knuckles pale. You turn the toy down, and watch him relax again...

...

“You like it Dave? I got it just for you.” He stares at it. It looks like a plug, albeit a slightly different shape than the ones you already have, but it has an extra curved part to it that leaves him wondering. “I... it’s a plug, but. What is this part?” He asks, pointing.  “Oh. So, you’re right, this goes inside you, and this,” you run a finger over the part he pointed at, “this sits against the taint. The very base of your balls.” He nods, humming to himself in understanding. “But if you don’t like it, we don’t have to use it-” “No. No, I do.” He blushes. You lift yourself up onto your toes, lean close to his ear and whisper. “It vibrates.” You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. You continue, “I can control it from my phone. I don’t even have to touch you to make you cum.” His eyes widen before squeezing shut, the blush dusting his cheeks deepening in colour, and letting out a small whimper.  

You move yourself back down, feet flattening onto the floor again. One of your hands raise to jaw, your thumb stroking his cheekbone. “I was wondering, and you can say no, if you might want to have some fun with it out...” His eyes open suddenly, brows pulling together, creasing in the middle. “Out, like out in public?” You nod in reply, trying to decide if it’s a little too far. You love each other, trust each other absolutely, but Dave is usually the one that asks to take things further. You worry if you ask too much of him, it’ll push him away. It wasn’t a limit for either of you. Public play had been a curiosity of his from the start of your relationship, even before he told you his submissive desires. You’d tease each other in public, he once made you cum on his fingers in a cafe. But this? Was it too much? You were so in your thoughts you almost missed him say “okay. Where? When?” Shit. You hadn’t figured that out yet, you’d only thought of it within the house. Dave wearing nothing but this in bed. Dave wearing it under clothes watching a movie on the sofa. “I haven’t thought about that. Maybe we can talk about it together?”

...

You’re sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant with Dave. You haven’t turned the vibration on yet, letting him get used to the fullness first. His hand is on your knee, rubbing circles with his thumb. You’re looking at the menu, deciding on what you’re each going to have when you place your chin on his shoulder. “You ready, baby?” You ask him, placing your phone on the table. “Remember what we talked about?” He nods, and squeezes your knee once  to signal he’s ready. You smile, raise a brow, and kiss his cheek. A quick wink, and you reach for your phone, turning it on to the lowest level. He sucks a breath in, and your smile spreads further across your face. “I love you, honey,” you tell him as you look back at the menu.

You had talked it all through, once he’d expressed his interest in wearing it in public. Discussed where was or wasn’t suitable, how many people he’d be okay with being around, who exactly were no-gos. You already knew you would never embarrass or humiliate him, and you wouldn’t do anything that may affect his work in any way. The two of you had agreed that you’d use your judgement for levels once you knew how loud it was, or how affected Dave would be. That if he got hard, you’d stop and allow him to soften again before restarting, and as always, safe words could be used by either of you, if needed. You’d shown him the plug’s different vibration levels (5 in total) and the ease which you could move from high to low, or stop it completely if necessary.

While looking through the menu, you turn up the level a step. He blinks, moving a little before relaxing again. It can’t be heard over the chattering of everyone. Once you see that your waiter is about to come over, you stop it. The waiter comes, takes your orders, and as he goes, you return the vibration straight back to level 2. Dave bites his lip to prevent a moan, and you kiss his cheek again, whispering words of praise and encouragement to him. You lower it as your drinks arrive, checking in on how he’s feeling before increasing it back up again. He moans softly, and you rub up and down his thigh. “You sound like you’re having fun, Dave. Such a good boy, making such sweet sounds.” He nods his head softly, whimpering, and gives you a small smile. 

The level is reduced again when the food arrives. Once it’s just you and Dave again, you increase it again for a while you eat and chat. Next, you start to alternate back and forth between 2 and 3, before settling at the latter. Dave sighs, but continues eating, though a little slower.  You move the plug’s level up to 4. Dave squirms in his seat. He frowns, and clenches his fist, the tension turning his knuckles pale. You turn the toy back down to level 2, and watch him relax again in his seat. “David, is this still fun?” He nods, but you’re not sure, “do you want me to stop until after dinner?” He doesn’t nod, but doesn’t shake his head either. “David, baby.” He looks up, and meets your gaze. “I’m going to turn it back to the lowest level and keep it there until we leave.”  He frowns again, but nods without protest. “Thank you, honey,” he whispers, lifting your hand to his mouth and kissing it softly. 

...

The vibration stays at the lowest level while you both eat dinner, and continue the date. Once the bill is paid, and walk through the restaurant doors, you put the level up. Dave grabs your hand and squeezes, pulling you back close to him. You smile, walk to the car, opening the passenger door for him, and then get into the drivers seat yourself. The second you pull the door to, he leans across to you, holding your face firmly as he kisses you.  “David. Sit back.” You say when you part, and he does so immediately. “Poor baby.” You unbuckle his belt, undo the button and unzip his trousers, “was it too difficult?” You reach your hand into his underwear, pull his hardened cock out, and grip it. You arch a brow, and whisper with a smile, “was I too mean?” You lick a stripe up his neck, and he bucks his hips upwards as his eyes squeeze shut and he groans deeply. “Oh, baby. You did so well, David. You deserve a reward.” You turn the level up again, and stroke his cock slowly.  Eyes still closed, Dave whimpers, breathing out your name like a prayer. “Please, honey. Shit, shit.” Speeding your strokes and raising the vibration level one final time makes Dave cry out “please, fuck, please?” The moment he is given permission, he cums over your hand, panting hard, clenching his fists tightly. You turn the plug off, still stroking his cock until his high is over, and his breath begins to even out and slow. He pants out, “thank you, honey, fuck.” He takes your cum-covered hand and cleans it with his pocket square before resting his forehead on yours, “thank you.”

Once the two of you got home, Dave pulls you to him, wraps his arms around you, holding your back to his chest, and walks you upstairs to bed. You get ready for bed and spend the night content in each other’s arms.

…

You talked it through with Dave the next morning. He assured you he had been having fun, it wasn’t too much. But concentrating on not moaning loudly had taken up more of his thought processes than he had imagined, and so trying to answer questions became difficult at the higher levels. He really loved it in the car though, when he didn’t have to hold back, and explained how eager he was to fuck you wearing it, or be tied up and edged over and over with it. Just not in public again until after a bit more training…

#sub!dave york #dave york #dave york pit #Martha writes #equalizer 2 #the equalizer 2 #Suburban murder husband #suburban murder dad #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #dave york x reader #dave york x you

[du0tine]

𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 | 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1,803 | 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: below the line!

angst. self-intoxication, use of alcohol. hallucinations. unrequited love. dark best friends to lovers au. mentions of murder. drowning. light description of blood and gore. mentions of rigor mortis and rotting flesh. viewer descretion is advised!

“Remember when we were young? Too innocent for this world with simply no fucks to give?” You say, your voice is painfully hoarse as you take a long and painful swig from your whiskey. Cringing you whine from the burning sensation that ripped at your throat, you didn’t even like whiskey and yet here you were drinking your sorrows away. This wasn’t anything new though, it was routinely for you to rip yourself apart on this night every year. The night he left you. 

There wasn’t anything special between you besides the fact that you’d grown up together and were best friends. Having such a bond made it inevitable for feelings to arise. Whether it come from one of you or both, it seemed to have happened and unfortunately it only came from you. Your feelings for the boy were strong, you loved him with everything you had. At one point you were even willing to die for him and you did. Not physically but mentally a large chunk of your heart dispersed, your soul died having sacrificed itself for him. He fell in love with someone else and you lost a part of yourself in acceptance of that. 

“Would it be that hard for you to return my feelings?” You ask out, your voice echoing into the void. It was always silent, every night was simply like the next. You gave your heart to him and in return you were met with an eternal silence. You’d never learn to love again, not after him. 

Silently you expected there to be another voice, his voice. You knew there would be no reply and yet you wanted one. All you wanted was to hear his voice one more time and yet you’d come far enough in life to simply end up alone without him. Surely at the age of 26, graduated with a degree in business and running your empire up the stock market, you’d become successful. You were living the life you always wanted but what was it without him? At moments like these all the money in the world meant nothing without Jaemin by your side. 

Sighing to yourself you kick off your shoes, your feet slapping against the marbled floors. The coldness making you shiver lightly as you take another swing from your drink. The bitterness of the alcohol warming you up, you could feel yourself sweating up as your vision become hazy. You could feel yourself getting drunk in memory of him. 

Holding the glass bottle in front of yourself you slush the liquid around. You felt confined like this as if you were the liquid contents inside this beautiful glass bottle of poison. Self intoxication of alcohol being your only escape during times like these. You were simply drowning yourself in your own issues, swimming around in your problems. At this rate you were slowly killing yourself. The mix of loneliness and the harshness you suffocated yourself with was draining you of life. There was simply no future for you like this. 

Pushing past the balcony doors you hoist yourself onto the balcony railings, the coldness of the night air blowing roughly past you. Whipping at your skin as goosebumps arose, littering your skin. Bringing the bottle up towards the sky you hold it next to the moon, watching as it slowly disappears behind the cluster of dark clouds. It was almost as if everything and anything wanted to disappear in plain sight of you, just like him. 

“Jaemin, tonight we toast to you,” Raising the bottle up higher in salutation to the night sky before bringing it to your lips and emptying it’s contents. The empty bottle feels much lighter in your hands as you feel your head spin. The world seems to be speeding up as your body slows down. Sauntering back and forth on the railing you struggle to keep your balance. 

Once, twice you stagger back and forth. A cluster of hysterical laughs bursting past your lips as you through your head back in amusement. Finally, you felt like you were letting yourself go. 

“Honestly, maybe life will be better without you,” You ponder to yourself as you playfully stick one foot off the railing. “Either way if I were to fall you wouldn’t catch me would you? You didn’t have my back in the past so it’s a good thing you aren’t here now too. You wouldn’t dedicate yourself to me the way I did to you.” 

Momentarily you stand still, your chest heaving heavily as you gaze out at your backyard from above. Its calm and serene, the pool that lay directly below is still. The water reflecting the dark skies colours showcasing a murky, dark blue and black. It was almost like an abyss. Your mind strays off and you mentally note to yourself to have the contractor come and install pool lights. Maybe that would clear up your life, you couldn’t swim in your problems anymore. If you found some sort of light in your life perhaps then you could finally be free and instead of drowning, you’d be floating on the surface calmly. 

“Everything is just too dark, maybe that’s why I’m so clouded up.” 

“No it’s not, you have me here,” Replies a voice.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck raise up in fear as you whip your head in the direction of the voice. Turning around you see a dark silhouette, his silhouette. He’s standing there in the dark and yet somehow you can just tell by his tall, slim figure and broad shoulders that it’s him. But how? There was no way he could’ve entered your home without you letting him and certainly without the security alarm going off. Overall though, he was gone. So how was it that he was back?

“Who are you?!” You confront the figure, your voice is rather shrill, laced in fear.

“You already forgot? No— you definitely know who I am. You’d never forget me,” He replies, his voice is different from the usual soft tone he once used with you. This time it just sounds much more menacing and much more evil. 

Then you finally see his face as he steps out from the shadows. Shrouded in darkness you see his visage, his features are still the same except for the painfully discomforting smile plastered on his face. His eyes are glassy and cold, no longer sparkling with warmth. The black tufts of his hair blow in the wind, brushing past his forehead and flying up into the air. There you see it, the small circular hole in the middle of his forehead. The wound seems fresh as the dark crimson blood slowly begins to seep out. Drifting down his t-zone and past his nose bridge. 

“There’s just…no way you could’ve forgotten,” He continues as he slowly inches his way towards you, “I mean after all you did this to me, remember?” 

You can’t breath, your chest feels tight and your throat simply won’t budge. You can’t even bring yourself to scream, simply just standing there in fear. Your eyes wide displaying all the emotions of fear you had deep inside of you. Within moments he’s standing in front of you, looking up at you. His skin is pale, as the blood continues to seep out of his forehead splashing him with the only colour of life he had. 

Reaching forward slowly his arms snake towards you as he wraps them around your waist and hugs you tightly. He feels like cement, his skin is hard and freezing and he simply just won’t let go. You snap out of your trance, your fight or flight kicking in as you try and get him off of you but no, he won’t let you go. Not now but isn’t that what you wanted? 

“I didn’t leave you silly,” He says, his breath is cold against your skin. The smell of death omitting from him as it feels like his aura is making the world around you feel polluted. “After all you killed me in fear of losing the one you loved most, me,” He continues as his places his head against your chest, you feel the blood pour onto your skin. It feels wet and damp as you start to hyperventilate squirming in his arms as you struggle to pry him off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! You left me for her!” You scream in frustration as he simply hugs you tighter. It feels like you are being molded into place within his arms as he leans against you, pushing harder and harder making you feel heavy. 

“Well I’m here now, isn’t that what you wanted? You’ve always been greedy haven’t you,” He says once more as you drag your finger nails against his skin, peeling his skin off as a result. His flesh is rotting as he shows no reaction simply holding you tighter. Screaming in fear you feel his skin caught up within your finger nails. You try to push him off once more but this time he fights back. Hoisting you up onto his shoulder as he pushes you off the edge of the balcony. The two of you falling into the dark pool. The water feels suffocating as it pulls you both towards the bottom. His figure floats over you, his hands on your waist as he helps push you down. 

“Remember when we were young?” He asks, the bubbles blowing past his lips as he speaks out loud to you, his voice echoes slowly inside the water. “You promised that we would die together, in order to spend the rest of eternity with each other. You know? Best friends forever?” 

Your gaze feels hazy as you struggle to breath, your vision is cloudy. All your sense draining from your body except for the feeling of his touch against your skin. 

“You couldn’t let me live in happiness couldn’t you? So I’ll take you with me and now, we can be happy together.” He says as he closes the distance between you both, engulfing you in a hug. Suddenly the coldness doesn’t bother you anymore. The life is slowly leaving you as he presses his forehead against you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he kisses you tightly. “With your death, I’ll accept your feelings since you couldn’t bare me loving someone else,” He says as your eyes shut once and for all, the water has long filled up your lungs and you are no longer alive and now Jaemin feels like both you and him can rest peacefully. 

Your unrequited love being accepted by him, once and for all. The only price you had to pay was with your life since you’d so greedily stole his. 

𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑽𝑬𝑫 ©︎𝑫𝑼0𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑬

#nct #nct dream #na jaemin #jaemin x reader

[mypassionfortrash]

KICKS (part four)

After watching Andie and Holly play at the dungeon, you and Roger go for a drink. Their scene might have been too extreme for either of you, but it still gave Roger some ideas on playing safely and opens up a conversation about how he wants to take his exploration further. And he has an interesting proposition for you.

Warnings: Strong D/s themes; graphic descriptions of needle play and blood. STRICTLY 18+. Notes: I am LOVING all the amazing feedback on this fic – thank you so much for reading and commenting. Please keep it coming. And please, if you liked this, share it!

Catch up: Part one // Part two // Part three

Tags: @jennyggggrrr @sarahgurl09 @scorpiogemini @johnricharddeacy​ @brianssixpence​ @hellohellothere12 @crazylittlethingcalledobsession @internationalkpoplova @thefairyfellersmasterstroke @six-bloodyminutes @hannafuckingsucks​ @dancingcoolcat​ @cherries-n-rocknroll​ @theedwardscollection​ @inthelapofrogertaylor​ @lnnuend0​

Tension radiated from Roger’s body by the end of Andie and Holly’s scene. You and Roger observed the whole thing from behind a two-way mirror. Every so often, Roger’s eyes would bulge, or his teeth would sink into his knuckle. He was on the edge of his seat from start to finish. He didn’t make a sound.

The show concluded with Andie forcing a series of mind-bending orgasms through Holly’s body with a Hitachi wand as she plucked a series of needles from her labia, which were spread in a clamped metal ring. Holly writhed against the industrial straps around her wrists, her waist and her thighs, but she just couldn’t evade Andie’s onslaught. With every wave, the edge of the table dripped with Holly’s arousal. The sheer amount of pleasure left her chest heaving and soaked in sweat. And when it became too much to handle, all Holly could do was gasp one word. “Red.”

Andie backed off with the wand and immediately undid Holly’s restraints. Too tired to move at first, Holly lay on the table trying to catch her breath as Andie fussed over her. Andie stroked her hair and dabbed away the blood on Holly’s skin with cotton swabs which eventually turned to ice packs to thwart any bruising or swelling.

Holly was so unsteady when she sat up that Andie had to prop her upright. A scarlet glow had engulfed her pale skin, and the muscles in her thighs still seemed to spasm. She needed time to adjust.

You leaned into Roger, lips close to his ear. “I think we should leave, give them some privacy.”

Roger’s eyes flicked to you in the darkness. “Ok.”

You and Roger didn’t roam far from Doxy, holing yourselves up in the bar across the street. Roger couldn’t contain his thoughts on what he had just witnessed. The grin on his face just grew and grew as the words poured out, recounting what Andie and Holly did. “And Holly,” Roger concluded, leaning back in his seat. “Holly fucking took it like a champ!”

A perky voice pierced through Roger’s assessment. “I really did, didn’t I?” Holly chirped, scooting into your booth beside Roger.

“It was amazing!” Roger beamed. “How are you feeling after all of that?”

“Really, really tired. Andie and I are just grabbing a drink while we wait for our taxis. Mind if we join you?” She said, glancing at you.

“By all means,” you said. “I’m sure Roger’s full of questions for you.”

Roger smiled and seemed to turn in on himself when Holly focused on him.

“Hit me!”

“That’s my job!” Andie said, putting their drinks down on the table and sitting down next to you.

“Oh, hello! Why were you saying, ‘yellow’ a lot? I kind of know what ‘red’ means, but what does ‘yellow’ mean?”

“We use a traffic light system, so when I’m approaching my limit in terms of pain or intensity, I can just say it, and Andie can drop things right back and slow down for a while. Red’s more when I want things to stop. It doesn’t need to be because of pain, either. Back there, I was pretty close to blacking out. Andie’s pretty careful, but it’s always important to use your safe word just in case.”

Andie nodded: “Some people might use one, but for more intense and longer sessions, traffic lights are better.”

“And when you’re using gags, you can give your submissive something to hold. A set of keys or something with a bit of weight is perfect,” you added. “If it gets too much, they can drop it. They might even do it subconsciously or by accident. But that’s a chance to check in with them.”

“So even though you’re having all of that done to you, you’re really in control?” Roger pressed.

“Yeah,” Holly said. “Before Andie and I started doing this on a regular basis, we made sure that we both set limits.”

“And we won’t try anything new without talking about it first,” Andie said. “The content of a scene should never be a surprise. It should be the way it’s executed – that should surprise.”

“How do you cope with the pain?” Roger asked, blinking at Andie and Holly. “Doesn’t that hurt, having the needles… downstairs?”

“When I’m not doing this, I’m a nurse,” Andie smiled, taking a sip of her wine. “But I’ve been doing both for over a decade. It’s just experience. I know how to place the needles so that Holy doesn’t bleed too much or it doesn’t hurt too much, and it won’t do her any damage. But the key is to get Holly into a headspace where she’s so turned on and excited right before you take them out.”

“It feels so good! And doesn’t hurt afterwards,” Holly chimed in. “Throw an ice pack on it, and I’m good to go!”

“Just don’t play with needles if you’re only starting out,” Andie cautioned.

Roger was in awe of Andie and Holly, listening intently to what they had to say, but you could tell he was growing impatient to have you all to himself. Every now and again, his eyes would dart your way. 

Holly noticed this and kicked Andie’s shin underneath the table, tilting her head towards the door.

“I think that’s our taxis out there,” Andie said, squinting through the window next to you.

“We’d better get going,” Holly said. “It was lovely meeting you, Roger!”

“Look after this one,” Andie giggled as she stood up. Her hand fell on your shoulder. “Don’t break her heart, Roger.”

Roger wore a wonderstruck expression long after Andie and Holly left the pub.

“How are you feeling?” you asked.

Roger rubbed his chin, studying you from beneath his eyelashes. “It’s all very exciting.”

“I remember that feeling. So you quite liked the medical thing, then?”

“I think studying dentistry sickened me off all of that,” he said, taking a swig of vodka. “But Andie and Holly do it well.”

“Didn’t know you studied that,” you said.

“Yeah! Hated every bloody second of it!”

“I’m not into all of that either. But there’s a world of things you could try.”

Roger looked up, his eyes moving in the air between and above you as he thought. “I just wonder how it starts. How people decide they want this?”

You spoke slowly, considering every word. “I think for me, it was a good way of developing a bit of strength. It sounds counterintuitive, but if I’m stressed, feeling some pain really cleansed me and made me better at dealing with life outside of play.”

“So it helped you cope in a way?”

“Yeah, it’s a nice way to hit the reset button. If you can take all of your negativity and cut it all off at the end of a scene. Some people like to learn discipline through it. Some people like knowing that someone else is making the hard decisions for them. Your reasons for wanting this are going to be completely different from someone else’s. And that’s ok.”

“I guess I always feel really guilty when I go away on tour. It’s always excess. Don’t get me wrong, I love touring. Love the shows and the parties. But I have a hard time reigning it in when it comes to girls,” he smiled. “I can’t keep doing that. I’m ashamed of how I am sometimes.”

“I think all of this could help you form better habits and see pleasure differently,” you began, leaning forward in your seat. “But along with that, you might have to do a bit of soul searching about why you do what you do. That’s not a kinky thing. It’s a you thing. How do you feel about not being allowed to come or have sex?”

Roger’s eyes lit up, but the colour drained from his pretty face. “I can’t imagine doing that.”

“It might be something to think about. Every time you think about having sex with someone, you could sneak off, have a little wank... And then ruin it. Condition yourself to think differently.”

Roger bit his lip. Intrigue had him leaning over the table, listening that bit more intently.

“You could be punished every time you allow yourself to come. Rewarded for how many days you manage to be good.”

His tongue poked out and brushed over his lower lip where he had just bitten. “What…” he stammered, “What kind of punishment are we talking?”

You shrugged. “That’s something you need to figure out what you’d be ok with.”

“And what are you into?”

You sighed, hooking your fingertips on the edge of the table. “When I’m in charge, I like very sensual things. Nothing lewd or filthy. A little bit of spanking. Making someone come so much that they’re shaking for hours afterwards and they beg me to stop. I love knowing that they trust me to push them. There’s something really fulfilling about it,” you smiled.

Roger was halfway towards lifting his glass to his lips when he paused. “And when you’re not in charge?”

Your stomach sank. “It doesn’t happen very often.” Suddenly your mouth felt like the Sahara. You desperately drained your glass and let the alcohol warm your chest. Dutch courage. “It’s the complete opposite. I have a bit of a humiliation kink. It comes from a fucking awful place, but it feels so cathartic. I get off on it. But it’s hard to put myself in that position and get in that headspace.”

“Does it feel safer for you to be more dominant?”

You nodded. “It builds my confidence and makes me feel more powerful and comfortable in my own skin. But also I think I know how to not be a bad one, if you know what I mean? I’ve had doms in the past who’ve just blown past all my limits. You can’t abuse someone’s trust like that. I know how that feels.”

The conversation hit a lull between you and Roger. He knew that your words came from a place of pain, but he didn’t know the specifics. The only way he could offer you comfort was with his hand, stretching out to meet your own. 

“That’s why you need to find the right person for things like this. Someone who’ll respect your boundaries.” Your fingers linked with his for the second time that evening. The pads on his fingertips bled warmth into your skin as they massaged your knuckles and traced every vein they found. Exploring. “What do you think your limits would be?” you asked.

“I don’t know,” he sighed, unable to rip his gaze from your hands. “I don’t want to be blindfolded. Or have needles stuck in me. There must be some other things out there that I haven’t thought of,” he half-laughed.

“We sell entire workbooks on that,” you giggled. 

Roger waved his hand through the air: “One thousand and one weird fetishes you’ve never heard of!”

“You’re not far off!”

“Might have to buy it and see!”

“Can’t wait to look at your answers to some of them.”

When Roger stopped laughing, his face fell into a sweet, contented smile. “I think you’d be amazing.”

“Hm?”

“At showing me the ropes… quite literally.”

“Oh you’d love to see my ropes, wouldn’t you?” you taunted, trying to cling to your cool exterior.

“As it happens, I would. Another drink?”

“I think I need it!”

You kept your eyes on Roger as he walked over to the bar. His mannerisms. The way he carried himself. Everything about him was so boyish and elegant at the same time. And he had the prettiest rasp to his voice. You would’ve been lying if you said you hadn’t imagined him tied up and begging you for release.

“I’ll do it,” you blurted the second Roger returned. 

He raised his eyebrows as he slipped back into the booth.

Your voice quietened. “If you’ll let me.”

“Really?” he asked, leaning forward. “You really want to?”

“I’ll show you everything you want me to. But I have three rules.”

“I’m listening.”

You counted each out on your fingers, stating your terms like they formed a legally binding contract between the two of you. “No kissing. No touching me unless I ask you to. And no penetrative sex.”

Roger’s smile fell slightly. “You mean I can’t even touch you?”

You seized both of Roger’s hands. “Not unless I ask you to. It goes both ways, and I need you to promise me you’ll abide by that. I told you I liked to keep kink and sex separate. Promise me you will, and I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”

Roger took a deep breath and weighed up his options with his mouth hanging open.

You swore it felt like an eternity. The knots that formed in your gut grew tighter and tighter. Until…

“Ok.”

“Really?” you asked, taken aback.

“I’m up for this.”

“Oh, thank god!”

“Thank you.”

>>NEXT>>

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor x you #queen fic #queen

[written-on-the-trees]

Yungblud Fan Fiction - Through The Looking Glass

Prompt: Mirror

Word-count: 2200 (way longer than I intended)

Warnings: none

Description: Dom knows he hasn't been sleeping well, but surely he hasn't missed so much sleep that he's hallucinating about not seeing his reflection in the mirror...

04:11 AM

   Dom’s head dropped back against the pillow as he groaned.

He’d had enough of this - waking up early for no reason, only to be confronted once again with the other side of the mattress being cold and empty. This was the sixth time this had happened in the last fortnight, and it was just another thing he didn’t need right now. He had enough on his plate without piling on sleepless nights - he didn’t get enough sleep as it was, he hadn’t gotten to bed until one this morning, meaning he was now going to spend the day running on three hours sleep, because there was no way he’d be able to go back to sleep; he never could. It was fucking ridiculous and it was all -

   Wait - what…

   Before he could fully get into the usual internal rant that had happened every other morning he’d woken up far too early, his brain cut him off. Something about the room didn’t seem right, and when he turned his head back to double check, he saw what it was immediately.

 He had no reflection.

 The mirror was empty. He could see the room in the reflection, but not himself. He pushed the blankets aside, and saw them move in the mirror just like the did under his hands, but his hands were nowhere to be seen. Even when he approached it, wondering what the fuck was going on, it was exactly the same, even when he was standing right in front of it.

 Dom stared at the mirror, at his lack of reflection…and noticed the silver surface of the glass ripple.

 He reached out to touch the glass…and gasped as his hand - and the rest of him - got sucked through the surface of the mirror.

 It felt like icy water washing over his skin, and then he was on the other side of the glass, in the reflection of his room. And it was a reflection; all the writing on his posters was backward, only really legible in the reflection in the mirror he’d just walked through - a mirror that was still missing his reflection.

 Dom was about to reach back out - to try and get back to where everything was the right way round - only for the door to burst open.

   “You made it! Finally. Well come on - better hurry, or you’re going to be late.”

   Is that…

   Sure that his eyes were somehow playing tricks on him, Dom turned round to face the door and saw with his own two eyes that were not playing tricks on him, and he was in fact being spoken to by a tall, pale man with pink eyes and big white ears growing out of his white hair.

 The white rabbit man adjusted his white leather jacket, a jacket that bore a blood red heart over the left breast, the only spot of colour on the man other than his pink eyes, and turned to leave, only to realise Dom hadn’t moved from his spot in front of the mirror. He turned to glare at Dom, crossing his arms across his chest and starting to tap his foot irritatedly against the floor.

   “Look, we don’t have much time to get you to the Hatter and the White Queen. I’m risking a lot just by being here to collect you, so the least you could do is get yourself together and your arse in gear.”

 Dom still couldn’t move: “I’m so confused - ”

 “What is there to be confused about?” the white rabbit rolled his eyes: “Just move! If the queen finds out you’re here, she’ll be frumious.”

 “Frumious?”

 “Frumious!”

   Too shocked and confused to get his head straight - or even work out what was happening - Dom did as he was told without asking any more questions and moved. He followed the white rabbit out of the room, and right into…into a field of flowers? But not just normal flowers: flowers that were as tall as Dom and the white rabbit, and that had faces that sneered and glared down at them as they tried to pass by.

 Dom tried to get a proper look, to hear what they were hissing at each other, since it as clearly about them, but the white rabbit - clearly tired of him not being quick enough for his taste - grabbed Dom by the wrist and started dragging him along the path. Dom was still not quite sure what was going on, but at this point he’d already followed him out of his room (or the reflection of it) and the mirror he’d come through, so he didn’t fight the white rabbit as he dragged him past the flowers and over a small stream, then into a forest - even when they passed weird looking shit like butterflies with wings made out of bread, or tiny, insect-sized rocking horses with dragon fly wings.

 It was all fucking weird, but Dom just went with it.

  The white rabbit sighed: “Tweedledee. Tweedledum.”

 Dom couldn’t tell which was which - they were almost perfectly identical - but it didn’t seem to matter, as they didn’t seem to mind: “White rabbit! Listen to our new poem; It’ll make you positively beamish!”

 The other twin didn’t give the white rabbit a chance to respond, launching straight into the poem: “The sun was shining on the sea - ”

 “ - Shining with all his might - ”

 “ - He did his very best - ”

 “ – To make the billows smooth and bright - ”

 The white rabbit suddenly exploded: “No, no, no! You’re making us late…oh my fur and whiskers! We’re late, we’re late, we’re late!”

   He dragged Dom past the odd twins, deeper into the forest.

 By now, Dom’s head was feeling a little clearer. Being in the forest had made his head feel like it was full of cotton wool - so full that it felt like other things had been pushed out. He’d almost forgotten that he didn’t like that he didn’t know what was going on, and that he had been meaning to ask the white rabbit about what was happening.

   “So…what is going on? Why are you taking me to see the Hatter? Who is the Hatter? And what does they want with me?”

 “How should I know? They asked for you, and that was enough.” the white rabbit responded acerbically: “They’re the Mad Hatter. They’ve earned the right to ask what they want.”

 “How?”

 The white rabbit looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow: “You don’t remember? You were there.”

   Dom didn’t remember that, so he kept his mouth shut.

 The white rabbit continued to drag him along in silence, down a steep hill to step over another small stream, then across a field towards a strange house perched on top of an even steeper hill. A house that looked strangely like a top hat, painted in a riot of bright, clashing colours. Dom didn’t think he’d be getting any points for guessing who lived there…

 As they approached, Dom saw there was some kind of party going on outside the house. There was a long table, big enough for a dozen people, even though there was only three present. Despite the lack of people, the table was still piled high with cakes, tea pots of all different sizes and colours, a hundred different tea cups, random books, scones, tiny sandwiches. It was the most insane looking tea party Dom had ever seen, and it was all unfolding under the watchful eye of the tall, androgenous figure sitting at the head of the table, standing out amongst all the bright colours by somehow managing to be even brighter, with a vibrant sage green top had with a salmon ribbon wrapped around it, perched on a gravity-defying mop of neon orange curls.

 Dom presumed they were the Mad Hatter.

 He also presumed they weren’t pleased, if the way they slammed their hand down on the table when he saw Dom and the white rabbit approach.

   “No no no.” the Mad Hatter shook their head, wild red hair whipping from side to side: “This isn’t him. Or, at least, not the right him.”

 “Give him a chance - ” the white rabbit started, but a taller, raggedly looking man with grey bunny ears sticking out of his wild brown hair cut him off by throwing a tea cup at the white rabbit.

 “Wrong him!”

 The white rabbit glared: “I spend weeks looking through mirrors, risking my head to that outgribing queen, looking for him all over, and you - ”

 “Well how could you get confused?” asked a small woman with snowy white hair and dark black eyes, a small pointed nose and a long mouse’s tail curling above her shoulder: “This boy doesn’t even look like him!”

 “If he was, though,” spoke a familiar voice from behind them, making Dom turn to see the twins from the forest looking at him closely: “He might be.”

 The other twin shook his head: “But he isn’t, so he ain’t.”

 “But if he were so, then he would be.”

 The mouse woman glared at the twins: “It’s. Not. Him.”

   The Mad Hatter stood abruptly, climbing on top of the table and walking down it, stepping on cakes and books and sandwiches on their way towards Dom. They got right up close to Dom, peering at his face from all different angles, tilting their head from side to side, and leaning around to Dom’s left, then to his right, before shaking their head.

   “No! Not him!”

 “Not who?” Dom asked, finally working up the courage to question the loud group.

 “Not you!”

 “What do you mean I’m not me?” Dom tilted his head to the side, confused: “Of course I’m me!”

 The Mad Hatter shook their head: “You’re not the right you.”

 Dom only felt more confused: “Not the right me? Not the right me for what?”

 “Why, to slay the Jabberwocky!”

 “The what?”

 The mouse woman scoffed: “The Jabberwocky! See, this is why it’s obvious you’re not the right one. The right one would know that it’s them what’s got to slay the Jabberwocky on the Frabjous Day!”

   Dom…didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know if he wanted to say anything - somehow he got the feeling that he was better off keeping his mouth shut. If they thought he wasn’t the right him, or whatever the hell that meant, then maybe that was for the best. He didn’t want to fight a Jabberwocky, because even if he didn’t know what a Jabberwocky was, it sounded terrifying, and the Frabjous Day didn’t sound much better.

 If he let them dismiss him, he might get to avoid both the Jabberwocky and the Frabjous Day altogether, and get back through a mirror into his room. So he let the white rabbit and the mouse woman and the round twins go back and forth on whether he was the right him or not, hoping that sooner or later they would just let him go.

 Honestly, it didn’t sound like they were going to do so any time soon.

 They were so busy going back and forth that they forgot all about him…but clearly the Mad Hatter didn’t. Even when the white rabbit left Dom’s side to carry on arguing with the others, the Mad Hatter stayed by his side, watching him with a strange gleam in their mis-matched blue and green eyes.

   “I don’t think you’re the wrong you.” they leant in to whisper to him: “You’re just not the right you yet. You need to get your muchness back - but I’m sure you will, and then you can slay the Jabberwocky and we can have the Frabjous Day. For now though…”

   The Hatter took Dom by the hand and led him around the side of the house, where there was a big mirror leaning against the side of the house. And to his relief, it was a mirror rippled to show an image of Dom’s bedroom on the other side of the glass.

   “I’ll see you soon!” the Mad Hatter said cheerfully, before shoving Dom through the mirror.

   He stumbled through the glass, the same feeling of ice-cold water washing over his skin, before he emerged into his bedroom, shocked and suddenly exhausted.

The only thing he managed to do was look over his shoulder at the mirror, relief crashing through him when he saw his reflection’s wide eyes looking back at him. Dom couldn’t manage much more that than - it took the rest of his energy to stagger over to his bed, where he shut his eyes and collapsed face first onto his mattress.

 He didn’t know how long he lay there: it could have been seconds, it could’ve been hours, Dom honestly wouldn’t know. He might have even fallen asleep, his head felt so fuzzy, but after however much time had passed Dom forced himself to lift his head out of the pillow so he could look at the clock.

   04:02 AM

   Dom’s head dropped back onto the pillow as he groaned.

 That had bee such a weird dream…

   …I hope.

#The Trees Writes #The Trees' October 2020 Writing Challenge #Yungblud fanfic #Yungblud fan fic #Yungblud fan fiction #Dominic Harrison fanfic #Dominic Harrison fan fic #Dominic Harrison fan fiction

[mz-elysium]

Wow. That was a lot longer than I planned. Do we even do comic sans wip posts anymore? It it cool? Am I cool? 

Photo ID below the cut because this is already way too fucking long of a post. And this ID, bc of it, is so so long.

Photo ID: a 13 slide Comic Sans font powerpoint about an original WIP. All slides but the first are white, black text, all font being Comic Sans to follow the meme.

Slide 1: black background, white text. Titled with red shadow: The City of Fallen Angels: (2) Hitaeth. Definition below: hiraeth: homesickness or nostalgia, an earnest longing for an idealised past, or a sense of regret. Around this title are a bunch of floating descriptors about the WIP: vampires, gothic-punk, regrets vs forgiveness, dark urban fantasy, historical 2003, 4 POVs, secrets, political intrigue, slice of life, compassion vs selfishness, vampires playing Game of Thrones, grimdark and also hopepunk. A Vampire the Masquerade canon divergent original novel.

Slide 2: Worldbuilding, about the Vampire the Masquerade world. Titled: The canon sects but like a little more nuanced. Three columns of bullet points follow. 

The first is the Camarilla. 

neo-feudal lords and princes

rule most of the world

want to rule the rest of it

scheming, old elders who don’t give a shit about anyone else

will kill your family to make a point

BUT ALSO.

stable domains; due process

clan culture, history, tradition

connected to wider vampire society

play their game and you can live as a peaceful peasant (mostly)

The second column is the Anarchs.

rebellious neonates/ancillae

in their Free States, there’s opportunity for power and to live your own life

neonates can actually own land??

ALSO

literal anarchy

no real oversight or leadership

can and will be killed by another gang

“if you can hold it, you can have it”

Third column is the Sabbat

worship Caine as the First Murderer (first vampire)

take “vampire” too literally

inhuman monsters

war cult readying for Armageddon

ALSO

profoundly religious

strict code of honour

accept their inhumanity (no angst)

tight-knit family-like packs

heroes/crusaders for their ppl

Slide 3: Titled: Have a shitty map. A Google map screenshot of Central Los Angeles, with highlighted sections in different colours, clearly done in Paint by a child. Seven sections are highlighted, explained on the next slide.

Slide 4: The lands are divided by the sect who control it.

Anarchs:

Angels Wasteland: remains of the #peaceful Barony of Angels. With Salvador Garcia’s death, it’s a shitshow chaotic warzone. 

Tinseltown: Isaac Abrams, movie baron, just wants to be left alone.

East LA: ruled by loyalists of the Old Guard Anarchs, who are all dead/gone. Sabbat from further east are smelling weakness.

Downtown: technically “no baron” but also nines is baron. Typical Anarchs, shooting each other, living rough, living free. OR ARE THEY???

Camarilla:

The Valley: a praxis backed by legendary elders, who are propelled by faceless masters, using unwilling Prince Barty Vaughn as a pawn

Westside: greedy and ambitious LaCroix goes “hmm. la looks like shit. probably wanna get in on that” and calls up his contact, Therese Voerman and says “yo. u got a barony, huh? wanna be my seneschal?”

“Independent”

Silver Lake: a desperate grab by Monroe and co to build their own “utopia” … sorta like the Anarchs 60yrs ago… and look how THAT went. Monroe ate the last Old Guard Anarch.

Slide 5: Titled: Monroe’s POV, with a subtitle of The Captain. On the left, a photo of half of a man’s face in shadow. He has dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and a hard expression. Bullet points describe him as Matthew Monroe, Clan Ventrue, Embraced 1873, Humanity 5, age 28. On the right, a series of bullets describe his POV’s story.

this is a dude drowning in an ocean of Problems and his catchphrase is “I’ll figure it out”

he owes a life debt to the enigmatic powerful archon in the Valley (Jan Pieterzoon), who seems to respect/honour him more than most of LA.

he used to be besties with the Valley Prince (Barty Vaughn), who he can’t trust but seems? the same?

he turned his ghoul and secret love into a vampire (Hawthorne), against her wishes, and now she hates him. monroe: u kno what? that’s fair.

Silver Lake is held together with duct tape. monroe’s right hand (Ashley Swan) is a nightmare and untrustworthy. his people try to kill each other.

he’s got a lot of unresolved trauma/grief/abuse/anger and vampires sort of have “The Beast”, a spirit that haunts them with evil

and oh yeah, LA is about to explode

Slide 6: Titled: Monroe’s supporting characters. Four characters, each of them have a photo, a title, and brief run-on description.

First, a photo of a very pale man with purple eyes and a lock of ice blonde hair. Ashley Swan, the Thorn, Clan Toreador. Monstrously cruel, sarcastic, hedonistic, aggressive, sadistic, can’t be trusted, doesn’t wear shirts. Bisexual transman.

Second, a photo of a dour woman with dark hair. Audrey Hawthorne, the Lovechilde, Clan Ventrue. Blinded by the Embrace, furious, frustrated, grieving, snarky, over accomplished, creative, passionate.

Third, a man in a black suit looking over a ballroom with a crystal chandelier. Jan Pieterzoon, the Kingmaker, Clan Ventrue. 300 year old, archon, elder, sire is Camarilla big-shot, dignified, mysterious, chessmaster, honourable, elite.

Fourth, a man in a dress shirt, sleeve rolled up, hand extended with a cigarette and bloody palm. Barty Vaughn, the Valley Prince, Clan Ventrue. Former Anarch, Prince of San Francisco, now reluctant Prince of LA. Smokes like a chimney, lives to fuck Tremere and have fun.

Slide 7: Titled: Zari’s POV, with a subtitle of The Black Rose. On the left, a photo of a beaming dark-skinned Black woman with bouncy coily black hair. Bullet points describe her as Zari Adeyemi-Swan, Clan Toreador, Embraced 1973, Humanity 6, age 27. On the right, a series of bullets describe her POV’s story.

life sucks, it’s cruel, and there’s no point thinking on the past, even when the past comes to haunt you

she fled her foster sire and once-lover (Ashley Swan) for his cruelty to others, but now he offers maybe?genuine? amends.

thirty years ago, she left her human children. her daughter (Aisha Adeyemi) has been Embraced and brings bad news

her main way of #coping is working and distracting herself. she throws herself to infiltrate the Westside Camarilla court (Sebastian LaCroix), against all good advice.

soon after she arrives, she finds herself having a secret admirer (Mercurio), who reminds her how precious it is to be loved, held, and cared for — but they need to overcome their own instincts to accept what they could have

The Voerman sisters are in the thick of it all, making perfect cautionary allies and, if she can overcome her preconceptions, friends.

and oh yeah, LA is about to explode

Slide 8: Titled: Zari’s supporting characters. Four characters, each of them have a photo, a title, and brief run-on description.

First, a photo of a white man wearing mirrored sunglasses in front of orange-pink neon. It casts his face and smile eerily. Ashley Swan, the Foster Sire, Clan Toreador, monstrously cruel, charismatic, loyal, thorough, too clever, pleasurable. Bi transman.

Second, a photo of a white man in a suit, adjusting his cuffs. Sebastian LaCroix, the Westside Prince, Clan Ventrue, opportunistic benefactor, greedy, ambitious, petulant, ruthless, degrading.

Third, a white man in a paisley shirt, gold necklaces, putting a hand to a tattooed and exposed chest. Mercurio, the Admirer, LaCroix’s Ghoul, resourceful, sweet, empathetic, capable, romantic, salt of the earth, former Mafia hitman.

Fourth, a white woman in a black suit with delicate gold jewelry. The Voermans, the Mirrored Sisters, Clan Malkavian; one is brutal, calculating, patient, reckless, the other is seductive, fun-loving, innovative, insightful.

Slide 9: Titled: Charlie’s POV, with a subtitle of The Moonchilde. In small text, a line says “a.k.a. Me processing grief over my mother #coping. On the left, a photo of a sad-faced white woman with freckles, black eyeliner, and frizzy brown curls. Bullet points describe her as Charlie Bradley, Clan Malkavian, Embraced 2003, Humanity 8, age 20, lesbian. On the right, a series of bullets describe her POV’s story.

life is getting back to normal? well, “new normal”

as a new adult, she has a good ol’ fashioned “start of life” crisis: who am I? where do I fit in? complicated by her mother’s death a year ago. what sort of woman am I? how does this figure into my attraction to women?

maybe. maybe. maybe monroe is cold and distant and ruling a vampire kingdom, but he wants to look after me. maybe i should let him.

also, hey, you (Jesse Harper) get it. and you’re hurting. let me help, let me be your soft place to land. wow, okay, this is kissing.

she didn’t mean to ruin her sire’s (Rhys Wilson) life. but, she did. she killed his mentor. SHHH! secret! she feel bad. maybe friends? uh, okay, weirdo. maybe D&D.

she’s learning to deal with feeding on scumbags and giving what people got coming to them. and the Cobweb, supernatural psychosis

WHY ARE VAMPIRES LIKE THIS? WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG? FFS

and oh yeah, LA is about to explode

Slide 10: Titled: Charlie’s supporting characters. Three characters, each of them have a photo, a title, and brief run-on description.

First, a white man in the middle of screaming, his head swaying back and forth so it looks like he has three heads. Rhys Wilson, the Sire, Clan Malkavian, weirdo, prime D&D fanatic and DM, just wants friends, and vengeance, pulls pranks to teach lessons. Gay.

Second, a very strong white woman with her arms crossed, a tattoo on one, and a t-shirt that is obscured but clearly says “The future is female”. Jesse Harper, the Darkness, Clan Lasombra, former vampire hunter, reluctant vampire, brooding, mysterious, sullen, black trench coat, buff as fuck, brave. Lesbian.

Third, a pair of clasped hands, male over female. Monroe, the Stepsire, Clan Ventrue, fucking old, inhuman, kills too easily, sincere, honourable, intense, gives good advice but really should shut his mouth hole.

Slide 11: Titled: Jack’s POV, with a subtitle of The Lone Wolf. On the left, a photo of a sad-faced strong Chinese man with a shaggy and tufted mullet. Bullet points describe him as Jack Shen, Clan Gangrel, Embraced 1955, Humanity 7, age 25, gay. On the right, a series of bullets describe his POV’s story.

why does he always end up alone? people leave, people die, people drift and change, but the good times were worth it

he’s always had a rocky relationship with his lover (Ryuko Saito), but now the dumbass has found a cult promising power.

he hasn’t lost him. he hasn’t. him and ryu just take time apart sometimes. but it’s been a long fucking while. and jack isn’t sure who he is alone anymore. a new human friend (Dustin Cohen), working at his animal hospital gives new life.

his former best friend (Damsel) has dove deep into Downtown and managing as Nines’ lieutenant, bringing him more and more dirty work to clean up

monroe relies on him to reign in the chaos of vampires trying to live without killing each other.

and oh yeah, LA is about to explode

Slide 12: Titled: Jack’s supporting characters. Three characters, each of them have a photo, a title, and brief run-on description.

First, a young white woman with dyed fire-engine red hair and an Iron Maiden t-shirt. Damsel, the Lieutenant, Clan Brujah, naive, brash, physical, loyal, loud-mouthed, smart.

Second, a skinny man in an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Ryuko Saito, the Orphan, Mage, power-hungry, desperate, proud, ruthless, loving, isolated, crushingly lonely, gremlin, old and chronic pain, hides and “treats” it with magic.

Third, a white hand extending a hummingbird to fly free. Dustin Cohen, the Receptionist, Human, understanding, the best of Good Dudes, empathetic, kinda lame outsider

Slide 13: Titled: also. A moodboard on the right side includes two weeping stone angels, one at sunset, one in darkness between a tarnished and broken silver crown; a gas station in LA as seen through a rainy car window; grim-looking downtown city buildings; and a sidewalk curb with neon lights reflecting off a puddle and a plastic bag of takeout garbage strewn across.

On the left, bullet points follow.

about 100 million other characters. I legit have a spreadsheet

Everyone is capable of evil

Sins of the sire (father)

Never too late to start being a good person

Takes place  about 6 months before Vampire the Masquerade Bloodlines

At least one more novel in the works

Subheading, 22/55 chapters written. Gonna start posting September 28.

End ID.

#wip intro #writers of tumblr #writeblr #vtmb #vtm #wip: city of fallen angels #vampires #urban fantasy #original writing #fanfiction #when does fanfiction stop and original writing start?

[minaa-munch]

@furrymakerkid asked:  writing request for you sweet mun. Minato was too smart to know no feeling was good. How did he cope with it? He didn't have Jiraiya Kushina or his team in the beginning.

Here’s a short answer: He didn’t.

Warning: Kinda dark and maybe NSFW if you squint. Possible triggers may include blood, gore and morbidity [it’s war, ne? Although I’ve restrained my descriptions...er, tried to. I hope you can read it, @furrymakerkid]

Disclaimer: This is my interpretation. Yours may be different and that’s okay - to each their own.

Image credit: Rurouni Kenshin

The trees whispered in soft, breathy murmurs as a gentle wind meandered past their many, leaf laden branches. All was calm, almost eerily silent sans the constant patter of boots against the bare crumble of rock; hushed whispers that were broken by the faint whistle of weapons and the occasional intake of breath. The usually relentless, rough soil was wet, almost muddy; yet there had been no downpour in weeks.

The land of Tsuchi no Kuni wept, while the heavens above bled. The glowing embryo of the sun surrendered to a cocoon of fluffy cumulus, lofty rays bleeding shades of red and orange across the darkening skies as a massacre quietly unfolded below; a beautiful painting, if only in the nature of its innate, organized chaos.

It would be nightfall soon.

“...”

It didn’t matter who raided which settlement first. What mattered was the fact that both sides had to keep an even body count. The dictum regarding warfare they were taught in the academy hardly covered such tactics; a few measly lectures so that bright eyed academy students wouldn’t take the trade less seriously.

It was all fun and games until someone lost a limb on their first field mission. Minato, in that regards, had been rather lucky. Where most cadets would rely on a team to ensure the success of a raid, all he needed was a handful of kunai.

He had always been ridiculously fast - even by regular standards.

The metal loop settled comfortably against his palm as tan digits curled around the hilt, seamlessly pushing it through with one, smooth movement before wrenching the weapon sideways, slicing the unexpected chest like one would tear open a package. Bloodied entrails followed the blade’s wake; peeking out of the soft folds of uneven, torn skin as the still pumping organ convulsed uselessly against twisting branches.

It was a quick execution; a means he had devised after their last field run. The metal loop of his kunai swung easily around his index finger as the waste was swiped off with a sharp flick of the wrist. Blue hues barely caught the woman’s expression as she dropped to her knees; he was already moving, the chakra signatures from his earlier sensory scan twinkling like quaint little targets.

They would be quick kills, for Minato hardly had the time for mercy. A kunai through the eye for anyone stupid enough to look his way, the splattered remains of a skull of a nin ambitious enough to try and sneak up on him, whereas most of the others barely got a chance to blink before deft digits pierced their forms with relative ease. Pure chakra would bounce off his skin like a controlled gale, as his natural wind affinity reduced muscle to fleshy ribbons.

It wasn’t needlessly cruel, per se; it simply happened to be the most effective in ensuring a kill. Besides, he had stopped feeling the warmth of skewered innards ages ago.

“Kami willing may you choke on your own blood”

The words drifted into the faint breeze that swept past their drenched fields; the scent of copper and compost intermingled into a sickly fragrance which sunk into his skin, down to his very bones.

Kami willing? As if Kami existed for people like them.

And then he heard it; a constant low hum that swelled to a certain crescendo, painting his subconscious in a murmur of static. Minato blinked curiously at his quivering fingers before casting a furtive glance around the field of littered innards and crimson. Hardly a soul in sight and yet...trailing off, blue hues returned to the tremble that had somehow seeped into his wrist. He couldn’t feel the slash decorating his palm, but he could definitely see the discoloration associated with poisoned weapons. Ugly strokes of yellows and blues bloomed all over his hand like pale, deathly flowers and he nearly dropped his weapon.

Fuck.

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

“Er...it wasn’t your first kill, was it?” The question was asked nonchalantly enough, as practiced hands wound a roll of gauze around his discoloured counterpart. Minato shot him a flat, unimpressed look which was met with a barely concealed smirk as he tied both ends with a vicious tug.

“I mean...you never get injured.” He continued, as Minato retracted his hand, giving it an experimental poke. “Lucky for you, you got back in time otherwise you’d lose your good arm.”

He was making fun of him, wasn’t he? “Yeah. Lucky.” the blond replied, tone as dry as the man’s wit before he curled his bandaged digits, “What about the hallucinogenic side effects?”

Would it have even mattered if it had been his first kill? The nin had been alive one moment and then he just…hadn’t. Was he supposed to feel something special about that? Besides, he had attacked Minato first.

Regardless. It had been so long ago, he hardly remembered the face associated with the deed. Since his deployment at Kusa, he had killed so many more with seldom a thought that he couldn’t be bothered to remember what they looked like. His last count had been, what, thirty three consecutive solo kills in thirty minutes? That was more than one life a minute.

Mere statistics. It didn’t matter.  

“Noise huh? It's the first I'm hearing of it.” Cue the methodical tap of wood against an unshaven chin, “Say, ever considered signing up for the psych evaluation thing they proposed back at HQ? I mean...there's nothing physically wrong with you. Maybe it's in your head." He placed his brush down on the makeshift table before letting out a snort, much to Minato’s chagrin.

“If what they’ve been harping about at HQ was true, we’d all be classified as nuts anyways.” The medic laughed, his grey hair reflecting warm honey in the dim lighting of the medical tent. Bemused, he took off his glasses to wipe a tear, before shooing him away with gloved digits. “Get going, Namikaze. We need you on the patrolling grounds. The war will be over soon, ne?”

Coloured hues met dark counterparts, bleeding ink and whispering false nothings.

“Ne?”

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

Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and the persistent whine in his head refused to shut up. Many an evening would witness the blond shifting his reading scroll to the side, just to press rough finger pads against his closed, burning lids.

He couldn’t recall the last time he had slept. Granted, Minato wasn’t one to sleep much to begin with; he was young, ridiculously curious and had the collective energy of twelve hyperactive gerbils. Still, he had always managed to clock in a few hours before, but this...

It was so damn loud. Minato couldn’t even concentrate for more than a few minutes before the constant low hum poked at his subconscious like a poisoned senbon. It tore at his mental-scape and sensory peripheral akin to flames consuming dry bark. Gone was his natural, healthy tan that had stayed resolute despite their meagre military rations, only to be replaced by a yellowish pallor, along with dark smudges underneath his weary hues.

A part of him was tempted to write to Jiraiya; the man always had answers to all the questions. They were in contact, of course, despite the state of the war and whatnot. Courier runs were few, but very dependable - but could he really divert the Jōnin’s attention from the frontlines where he was undoubtedly needed?

No, he couldn’t be that childish. Their local medic had dismissed his concerns too, so clearly it wasn’t that big a deal.

Right?

His seniors had different answers. Some blamed the weather, some considered the possibility that an enemy had contaminated their food supply [“I’ve been feeling kinda itchy myself.”] While some had nothing to offer at all. No answers. They figured he was finally losing his mind, after killing so many - in fact, most were still wary of him since even the older Chunin in their unit showed a little hesitance when it came to those child scouts who were no older than academy students.

But Minato? He operated on autopilot. For someone so young and without a hint of malice on his features, he was surprisingly cold hearted. Most of the new Chunin cadets steered well away from him, either in awe or fear whereas his older, more experienced counterparts often regarded him with complacent silence.

Not exactly friends, but comrades. They could probably share a few drinks together. Not converse though. Perish the thought.

The constant, low drone was driving him mad.

Arizuwa Yana; an experienced Chunin from the reserve strike unit apparently had a few theories. Said theories were dry at best, with little speculation as to the nuance of phantom sensations, though with plenty of promises of actual sensations.

Somehow, one thing had led to another and they had ended up intertwined together in one of the darker corners of the many, many tents in their unit. He was a few years younger than her, but apparently that wasn’t a problem.

Age didn't matter, gender didn't matter - nothing did.

The problem was that despite the hands ghosting his clothed sides, he still couldn’t feel anything; it was like his insides were frozen with nothing sans the constant thrum of sound for company. A frown settled between his brows at the thought as slender, yet calloused fingers tangled themselves within his hair, tugging with an odd sort of insistence.

It did nothing to quell the static he alone could still hear, could practically sense crawling under his skin like wild, feverish ants.

Static. It seemed that was the only thing he could feel these days.

And this…this wasn’t helping. Blue hues flickered to dark, older counterparts before tan digits removed themselves from the soft swell of her pretty face. “I’m sorry, senpai.” Is all he managed to say, not really sorry at all before the same fingers found her forehead, jutsu a mere whisper against her flushed skin.

Yana senpai was out cold in the span of a heartbeat. Dull orbs stared at her peaceful features for a few precious seconds before he rolled over, gaze fixed on the sloping ceiling and a forearm resting against his forehead.

Maa...what a waste.

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

Jiraiya sensei,

How are things at the front lines? Yuuhei taicho told us that Amegakure had officially joined the fray and you would be deployed there soon. Gambatte, sensei.

Ano…sensei, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I’ve stopped feeling things. It started out as a weird sort of numbness, as if I was looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. I don’t even feel the sting of a cut anymore.

I’m scared. Is this a good thing? Oh by the way, you won’t believe what I found about that fuuin combination you told me about that one time. If it’s truly what you say it is, the Nindaime might have been on to something. See, if you swap the earth and wind constructs then the combination gets altered. I tried something with one of my fuuin tags today and the results were kinda wonky but in a good way. Let me know when you get this and I’ll send you all the workings I did.

Minato

He purposefully left out the bit where a part of him wanted to hide behind the elder, shaggy white mane and all, and stay in the comfort of his towering shadow. He had wanted to, though - desperately, too. But his writing brush had paused, a lone drop of ink blotting the parchment and upsetting his neat signature.

That had decided it then, hadn’t it? Gloved digits had rolled the parchment in a neat scroll, bound it with a convenient little fuuin and handed it in for the next courier run.

His paranoia was silly. Kusa was one of their priority outposts; full of experienced comrades and they were armed to the teeth. They were as safe as they would ever be. Besides, he had a near perfect kill streak - no one in their right wits would target him; Konoha’s number one rookie genius.

He felt so horribly alone though.

You’re not a child anymore, Minato.

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

Three weeks. No reply. The constant fighting was taking its toll on all sides; with dwindling numbers and increased recklessness. Their tiny little outpost presently served as the main rendezvous point between the frontlines fighting Iwa and the reserve forces that had set up camp a few miles away. The war would enter its final phase soon and everyone was too bone tired to complain.

Minato wanted to send another message, but if Jiraiya hadn’t had the time to respond to his previous letter…

Sigh. Clothed shoulders sagged a little while the side of his face met loosely curled digits, expression forlorn. Next to him, Inuzuka Saito quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. They were both stuck with watch duty, in case the platoon that had been sent out to assist their frontlines against Iwa a few days ago came stumbling back.

Initially, Minato had been a part of it too, but Yuuhei taicho had ordered otherwise. He and a few others would be used to sneak from behind and attack Iwa’s unguarded backs. His experimental jutsu was perfect for the purpose, and he had a near flawless strike record so far.

And in the off chance he failed? It would be...understandable. The wars saw their fair share of victims and the Memorial was an honour for any loyal, Konoha nin.

The very thought made him taste bile. Tan digits curled into a trembling fist at his knee, as frigid blue hues glared a hole through the encroaching shadows of dusk that surrounded their camp. Kusa was known for its rich forests; gigantic fauna and rivers that made it the perfect terrain to hide and lie in wait. Nightfall usually witnessed the shadows that clung to its natural, beautiful scenery slip from their places and creep inwards, bathing all matter; living and non-living, in its eerie, peaceful silence.

Yet he had not experienced any blissful silence in so long; the static was a constant thrum in his mental-scape, one he had learned to accept. The Namikaze would be damned if he lost what constituted as his sanity to a useless murmur of sound; he had not survived through the countless murders to plead death by insanity, had not endured the constant stench of rot and copper which hung around his frame like the scent of mustard oil that he used to maintain his weapons.

Had not sliced through flesh despite the whimpers begging for mercy--

Cue a shuddering sigh as eyes squeezed shut and he felt the urge to rip out his own hairs. Trembling digits inched upwards, intending to do just that before Saito’s voice broke the spell.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

Namikaze Minato was going insane. Maybe he had always been insane and by Kami, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. Blue hues snapped open, staring listlessly at the dark and he swallowed thickly against his now dry throat. His frame tipped forwards; forearms resting against his knees as long, blond bangs hid his terrifyingly monotonous expression.

They would learn to loathe him, to fear him and he would slaughter them like the pointless sacks of meat that they we--

“Mail call!” A second interruption, though this time something actually managed to hit him in the back of his head. Fumbling hands barely caught it before it could hit the ground as the designated courier nin giggled, “Sorry, Namikaze.” Boots crunched against the leaf littered floor before he moved inside the camp, similar calls echoing in his wake. Minato blinked owlishly at the nin’s retreating figure, before shifting his gaze to the messy paper wrapping and miniature scroll that hung listlessly from one of the many corners.

It wasn’t from Jiraiya sensei.

Minato no baka,

Heard you were stuck in Kusa. That sucks ne? You’re surrounded by giant weeds and laughing shrooms. I’ve sent you some of those weird sticky quail egg things you like to cheer you up.

Guess who’ll be deployed soon. Me, that’s who! Maybe we’ll even be at the same outpost. You can show me all the nice napping spots ne? We got news the other day that the war wouldn’t last long. It’s been years already. I hope you’re still…you know, you. I miss you. Why did you stop writing?

Take care of yourself. Better not die or I’ll drag you back from the clutches of the shinigami just to kill you myself.

Kushina

Weird sticky quail egg things? Wait, was she talking about the sticky sweet beans he had accidentally spilled on her once?

“What are you grinning at?”

“Hm? Nothing, nothing.” And yet, there was something. He couldn’t help the silly little smile that tugged at his lips while his current patrol mate shot him a weird look. He was about to open his mouth to ask a second time, but then he saw the half open wrapping resting in the crook of Minato’s arm and made a quick swipe for it.

“Is that natto? Kami it’s been so long! Can I have some?”

“Sure.” Minato wasn’t even paying attention to the greedy fingers that had grabbed the miniature treats as soon as the words left his lips. Blue hues were still trained on the inky scrawl that denoted the kunoichi’s kanji. Kushina had always been an unpredictable little oddball. He didn’t even remember the last time he had written to her, but she clearly did. It made him feel strangely warm.

---And now he wanted to rip his own heart out and squeeze the treacherous, woeful thing until it would beat no more. Trembling digits rolled the scroll before a sweaty palm was pressed harshly against his aching forehead, the fingerless, leather glove providing little comfort to the uncomfortable warmth that stung his tightly closed lids.  

Kami...what was wrong with him?

As if Kami existed for people like them.  

Endnote: This took me far longer than I thought I would. Apologies! Ano, extra trippyness can be accorded to Koko, ne? She mentioned insanity, and since you had already tempted my inner crazy...

#Namikaze Minato #war #Uzumaki Kushina #Jiraiya #story post #furrymakerkid #tw; blood #tw; gore #tw; a little trippyness #Minato is kinda...nuts #hints of impending MinaKushi #I love exploring twisted minds #angst #my giant pile of drafts is on you furrymakerkid #blame Koko for added trippyness ne #separate post because the read more option died in the first one #apologies for polluting your individual dash(es) #headcanon

[luki-fanfic]

KHR/BNHA Fanfic: The Restaurant with Sushi That’s Out of This World P.2

When it comes to food, Aizawa will happily subsist on protein packets and energy drinks.  However, his friends and co-workers don’t seem to understand the perfectly logical reasoning for this, and he often finds himself on the receiving end of leftovers.

As such, the first time he becomes aware of Hizashi’s newest food obsession is when a bag is dumped on his desk, followed by a very excited “Shouta you have to try this you’ll never eat anything else ever again!” from his oldest friend.

He’d be more excited if Hizashi didn’t utter something similar every other time he tried a new restaurant, but at least the sushi is recognisable.  Hizashi’s love of ‘fusion dining’ had been a dark time in the UA staff room. Cementoss still can’t look at clam chowder without running to the toilet.

Long years of experience have taught him that Hizashi wont let him rest until he’s at least sampled some of it – and with a long set upon sigh (that’s only partially for effect), he snaps the chopsticks in half and pops the closet piece into his mouth.

Flavour immediately bursts onto his tongue, and he pauses in surprise.  

It’s very good.  Almost too-good-for-his-paycheck good.

From his side, Hizashi starts to cackle.

“I know right?  I don’t know what Yamamoto’s secret is but I’m not eating sushi anywhere else.”

Aizawa eats another piece, lips stumbling into a smile at the taste, and finally turns to Hizashi.

“Where did you get...this?”

He trails off when he realises the only reason Hizashi isn’t eating with him is because he’s frantically changing.  The lower half of his uniform is still on, but he’s pulling off a suit jacket and some very large t-shirt he’s pretty sure All Might left in the staff room last week.  His hair is mangled, he’s clearly tried to put Present Mic’s gelled up spectacle into a ponytail in an attempt make it fall flat the way it does naturally – or at least more naturally than the several tons of gel automatically makes it - and for the life of him, Aizawa cannot figure out why.  That ‘do’ stays in place until Hizashi has a free hour, access to hot running water and a change of clothes.  Present Mic wouldn’t be caught dead with hair that wasn’t ‘up and about like the hands of his listeners Shouta!’

Hizashi doesn’t even seemed fazed by Shouta’s confusion, and continues to grin as he pulls off the shirt and starts rooting around his desk, pulling out Present Mic’s jacket and speaker.

“It’s from Takesushi, that restaurant that took over from the hot pot joint that closed last month?  Went in out of curiosity, but the sushi keeps bringing me back.”

Back in uniform, he grabs his own pair of chopsticks and jumps into his own chair, schooching it closer to Shouta and shoving a piece into his mouth.  “Decided I finally couldn’t keep it from my best friend, especially when it’s well within walking distance.”

“Although apparently unfriendly to heroes?” Aizawa asks, hand gesturing to the mess that is currently Hizashi’s hair.  The man grimaces, hand rising to check out the damage before aborting the action in exchange for more sushi.

“Well, that’s a long story” Hizashi admits.  “Present Mic ‘may’ have ruffled some feathers first time he went in, so I try to not to go in as a hero.  Plus I’m kind of on speaking terms with the owner, so I’d rather he not put two and two together.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow.

“Speaking terms?  How much sushi have you eaten this month?”

Tellingly, Hizashi’s eyes flicker down to his belly before he offers a sheepish grin.  Aizawa rolls his eyes, but eats another piece.  He’s not entirely sure he can blame him all things considered.

“You know what, when I can finally drag you out for a proper meal, I’ll introduce you.  The two of you will hit it off in a heartbeat. You’ve so much in common, Yamamoto’s devoted to his work, fosters a bunch of troubled kids, and considers me his best friend in town.  

“How long has he been in town?” Is Aizawa’s automatic reply, and Hizashi mock pouts.

“Shouta!”

Aizawa ignores him, choosing to go over the earlier statements.

“I don’t foster kids.”

That immediately has Hizashi grinning.

“True, but you’re such a mother hen to your students you might as well adopt them.  I’ve got money riding on one of them accidentally calling you ‘Dadzawa-Sensei’ by the end of the year.”

Aizawa scoffs.  That little bet has been going since he started teaching, and Hizashi hasn’t won yet.  The man chooses to ignore the dismissal, and pats Aizawa on the back before grabbing the last piece of sushi in the box.

“Trust me Shouta, when I get you in there, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.”

Normally, Hizashi spends a month inhaling his latest craving before getting bored and looking for the next new thing.  But when the deadline comes and goes, Takesushi take out boxes are still littering the staff room.  Granted, they’re not all from the Voice Hero – he’s infected half the teachers at this point, and Aizawa has even started seeing the boxes pop up in students hands at lunch time.  Takesushi is clearly here to stay, which means Hizashi might actually make good on making Aizawa socialise.

He’s walking towards the school, mentally forming an excuse should his friend try to coax him out tonight, when his eyes are drawn to a crowd near the side of the street, and the smell of explosives hits his nose.

A few moments later, he’s pushed through to the front of the crowd, to find part of a wall still smoking, and three men he vaguely remembers as low level problems on former patrols thoroughly beaten up and in cuffs, being pulled towards an ambulance by officers.  It doesn’t take long to fill in the story – the crowd is buzzing with information.

“-fourth fight this week isn’t it?”

“-really knew what they were doing.  Those men couldn’t even touch him.”

“-ink its one of the UA students?”

“-ain squabble?”

“Not in this neighbourhood.  But what if-”

“ust be some kind of vendetta.  Did they find whoever they attacked?”

“Vanished when they heard the sirens.  Oh!  Could we have a vigilante?”

Aizawa lets the voices wash over him as he takes in the damage, before moving away from the scene.

It’s not his jurisdiction.  It’s not even his day to patrol, but whenever he finds himself with spare time that morning, he finds himself digging through reports for vandalism for the local area.

What he finds confirms what he’s heard.  This is the fourth fight in the area around UA that has ended with explosions.  The first two were against teens from other schools.  The boys from the first fight all had records, while the second had apparently been trying to attack or intimidate another student (‘looked as timid as a mouse and squealed like a puppy’ according to the witness reports).  The third was when police started taking notice – the opponent was a grown man with several accounts of indecency towards woman who had been cornering a young woman who supposedly had run off with her mysterious defender.

All in all, there’s not much of a pattern.  It certainly doesn’t appear to be the work of a villain, or even a vigilante – teenagers and perverts suggests something more random.  The work of someone with a short temper, plenty of pride, and considerable protectiveness or chivalry.

By lunchtime, he’s wondering if he’s curious enough to request the original witness reports for the incidents when he hears Bakugo screaming from the corridor.

“IT WASN’T FUCKING ME!”

His head drops to hit the table, but Aizawa still finds the energy to get to his feet and walk to the door.  When he takes in the scene, his senses immediately go to high alert.

There’s a police officer in the corridor, trying to calm his volatile student down and failing miserably.  The second Bakugo realises he has an audience, his face snaps round to face Aizawa and points at the officer accusingly.

“There’s some goddamn shitty copycat running around and these morons are here bothering me rather than doing their fucking jobs!” Bakugo snarls, hands smoking.

Ah.

Part of Aizawa just wants to sigh and crawl back into the classroom.  Due to the nature of hero training, the police officers districts local to UA all get a list of students and their quirks.  Considering Bakugo’s score on the entrance exam, it wouldn’t have taken long to find a possible suspect.

Still...a quirk is not enough reason for the police to confront a student.  And certainly not without approaching his home room teacher first. Choosing to ignore the rage unless the boy actually starts sparking, Aizawa turns his attention to the officer.

“Officer…?”

“Tanaka” the man offers.

“Officer Tanaka, What makes you think my student was the one responsible?”

Bakugo almost starts hissing, while the Tanaka sighs.

“From the damage done to the street in each incident, they clearly went against someone with an explosive quirk.  Nothing else matches the blast pattern, and our recent victims all clearly insisted the ‘foreign looking, pale-haired ass-hole with a foul mouth’ tried to blow them up.”

“FOREIGN?” Bakugo howls.  “I’m a hundred percent Japanese you fucker!”

...But he doesn’t look it, Aizawa admits to himself.  Hair and eye colour are no longer any way to tell ethnicity in a quirk-filled world, but old ways of thinking, especially in countries like Japan, still cling on in some neighbourhoods.

And even disregarding that, Bakugo is already proven the other two parts of the description fit him to a tee.

“Regardless, I will need to know your whereabouts for these incidents” Tanaka tells Bakugo.  

“Do as he says” Aizawa adds, and when it appears the teen is about to erupt again, quickly adds-

“I will be aiding Officer Tanaka in this investigation, and while I have no doubt of your innocence, providing the necessary proof will save everyone a great deal of time and effort.”

The boy dearly wants to blast them both – the mental battle in his eyes would almost be hilarious if not for the situation – but he keeps himself in control.

“Fine” he spits out.  “Give me the times and I’ll tell you where I was. But if you don’t find this fucker I’m going hunting myself.”

Of that, Aizawa has no doubt.  Looks like he’ll be working late today.

“Drinks tonight?” Hizashi asks when Aizawa staggers into the staff room at the end of the day.

“I can’t” Aizawa.  “There’s a situation that I need to deal with.  I’m meeting with law enforcement in half an hour.”

“What!” Hizashi squawks, standing up in indignation.  “You aren’t on patrol tonight!  I checked.”

Aizawa just takes the opportunity to slump down on the sofa, head leaning back as far as it’ll go on the back.

“It’s student related.  There’s reports of illegal quirk use, and one of my first years matches the description.”

Hizashi gives a low whistle.  “Ouch.  Do you think-”

“No” Aizawa answers emphatically.  “But fingers have to point somewhere unless it’s stopped.  Officer Tanaka and I will be canvassing the area to try and get a more accurate description, hopefully before another incident takes place.”

He runs a hand through his hair before continuing.

“So far, all we know is we have a dozen witnesses insisting they’ve seen fights in the neighbourhoods north of UA where a teenager used explosions to fight off his opponents” he replies.  “A loud, violent, pale haired teenager with little respect for authority and an exceptionally foul mouth. It was a close enough description to Bakugo to bring law enforcement here.”

It does, admittedly, sound a lot like Bakugo Katsuki.  But whatever his fellow classmates might think, Aizawa knows Bakugo’s type – he wouldn’t risk his reputation by illegally using his quirk in broad daylight, and he’s strong enough not to have to. Which means there probably is an unintentional copycat running around.

It helps that two of his provided alibi’s have proven iron clad – he was still in school for the first attack, and he was caught on camera in a subway station for the third, but Aizawa needs to nip this in the bud.  Illegal quirk use can ruin a hero’s career before it begins – if Bakugo continues to be associated, it wont even matter that he’s not responsible, and the explosive teen is going to have enough challenges in making it to graduation without loading another teen’s mistakes to his file.

“...You sure they were all near the North?”

Aizawa huffs.  “Yes.”

“...Anywhere near Seirin High or...the restaurant district?”

Aizawa stills, and pulls his head up.  Hizashi looks worried, fingers twisting together in a way he only does when he’s feeling guilty.

“Hizashi?”

His friend winces.

“I...may, possibly, know a non-UA teenager living in that district who fits that description?”

Aizawa mentally recalls the area, and a restaurant quickly flashes into his mind.  As do Hizashi’s many long conversations regarding the infamous ‘Yamamoto’ and his brood.”

His head flops back with a heavy thud.

“You didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

“I have mentioned him” Hizashi defends.  “I mean, I don’t know for sure what his quirk is but-”

“Who is he?” Aizawa asks, before Hizashi realises that he’s been toning out quick a bit of the Yamamoto story recap the last few weeks.

“Gokudera” HIzashi offers.  “Gokudera Hayato.  Sixteen, silver hair, bit of a smoking habit, very, very smart, and extremely protective of what’s his.  Not certain about his quirk, but I’ve heard enough in-jokes about his ‘explosive personality’ to make assumptions.

Aizawa gives a long groan.

“Don’t suppose he’s not fully Japanese?”

“Half-Italian I think.”

Jackpot.

Thankfully, Officer Tanaka agrees with him about the possible ID, and they head straight for the restaurant.  It’s closed – judging from the hours a temporary break so the staff can change for evening service – but the door is unlocked and they head inside.  

There’s only one figure in view, a man in chef whites behind the counter, who looks up at their arrival. The second he registers them, he sighs, heard lifting up towards the ceiling.

“I should have known it was too good to last” he mutters.  “So, which one is it?”

It’s the tone of a long-suffering man who knows full well what he can’t control.  Aizawa can sympathise.

Officer Tanaka on the other hand, just seems amused.

“Yamamoto Tsuyoshi?  I’m Officer Tanaka Shinji, and this is the Erase Hero, Eraserhead.  I’m afraid we have reports of illegal quirk use, and a possibly suspect is registered as living at this residence” he says.  “Eraser head is here due to the nature of the damage.”

Yamamoto’s eyes glance in Aizawa’s direction, and he nods in greeting.

“Witnesses are describing a quirk which is unfortunately similar to one of our students and causing problems.  Parts of the neighbourhood are showing signs of explosive-”

The sushi shop owner doesn’t even wait for the heroes to stop speaking, taking a step back and hollering into the kitchen.

“Gokudera! Get down here now!”

There’s a set of stairs just to the side of the kitchen heading upstairs, just out of sight for customers, and Aizawa hears some muffled sounds from above, followed by thumping, before heavy footfalls announce their suspect.  

It’s a teenager with silver hair and a delicate bone structure that could almost be called pretty if he wasn’t scowling, and adorned with enough gothic accessories to open up a jewellery store.  All things considered, he can’t really see any resemblance to his student – except maybe a similar taste in skull-motif fashion.  When he storms into the restaurant and spots the heroes standing by the door, he scowls even further, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“What the fuck are these bastards doing here?”

Ah, there it is.  Bakugo’s trademark mouth and disrespect.

Yamamoto, clearly used to the language, merely ignores it.  “What have you been doing after school?  You told me you handled it legally.”

The teen bristled.  “I did!  I checked the laws on self defence six times.  They’re stupid as all fuck, but very clear. And those ass-holes used their powers first!”

Officer Tanaka steps forward.  “Gokudera Hayato?”

The teens head snaps back.

“What?”

Tanaka quickly rattles off the dates and incidents in question, but Gokudera merely rolls his eyes.

“Sure, that was all me” he says, as if he hasn’t just confessed to breaking the law on multiple occasions.  “They all needed to be taught a lesson in just where they stood on the food chain.”

The policeman is already shaking his head in disbelief.

“Gokudera, if someone intentionally uses their quirk on you, you should be contacting the authorities rather than fighting back with your own-”

“Ah!” The teen shoves a finger at the officer’s face.  “I didn’t use my ‘quirk’ so didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tanaka is not impressed, pushing the hand away and glaring at the teen.

“Then they just happened to get admitted to hospital with blast marks and chemical residue on them?”

Gokudera throws his hands into the hair.

“God this place is so backwards!  No, they didn’t just happen to get those, that’s a pretty natural conclusion to someone getting up close and personal with explosives!”

“Are you saying they got too close to your explosive quirk and it was unintentional?” Aizawa asks, although he’s pretty sure he’s missing something here.  The teen glares at him, and then from...somewhere, pulls out what appears to be a stick of dynamite.

“No” he replies.  “My quirk is too dangerous for losers like that.  I used, old school, real explosives.  You bastards get it now?”

“Gokudera!”

Eraserhead frowns – the man in front of them had snapped the name, but it had echoed from above.

Ah, at the top of the stairs was a skinny teen with fluffy brown hair, looking absolutely horrified at the situation.  

This must be the ‘mouse and puppy’ from the reports.

When he draws everyone’s eyes, he flinches, shuffling down the stairs. Eraserhead expects him to cower behind the puffed up delinquent at the bottom, but instead he steps in front, arm moving just a tiny fraction – an attempt to keep the teen where he is.

More astonishing is the look of awe that appears on Gokudera’s face as he takes in his friend.  It’s the same look Midoriya gets when All Might so much as breathes in his direction.  Idol worship in its purest form.

What kind of relationship do these two have?

“Tsunayoshi, this really isn’t something you need to be here for” Yamamoto offers, thought Aizawa notes there’s not much force to the words. Tsunayoshi just shakes his head.

The brunet is clearly nervous, but he’s ready to protect his friend however necessary.  Eraserhead appreciates the sentiment.

But it doesn’t change the facts.

“So, your quirk” Eraserhead begins, turning attention back to Gokudera. “It doesn’t involve explosions?”

The taller teen snarls, brandishing the stick.

“No! It’s not a fucking quirk!  What the fuck is wrong with you people? How many times do I have to say it!”

“Gokudera!”

The teen’s face falls as the boy in front of him chides his outburst, looks away in contrition.  The fluffy brunet gives a quick sigh, before stepping forward.

“It’s not his quirk sir, I promise.  He just really likes explosions – he uses flashy...fireworks?”

The boys sags a little at the last work, and Tsuyoshi covers his eyes with a palm.  Clearly, ‘fireworks’ isn’t quite accurate.

Still, if it’s not a quirk, it’s a matter for police, not heroes, and Bakugo’s reputation will be clear.

“Can you prove it?”

Gokudera rolls his eyes and grabs a pair of chopsticks from the same table. He glances over at Tsuna, who then glances at Tsuyoshi, who gives a nod of permission.

The teen’s hand glows red, almost as if it’s on fire – though it focuses more on the rings the boy wears than the skin – and the chopsticks disintegrate into nothing.

Eraserhead's eyes widen as the flames vanish.

“Disintegration. That’s my ‘quirk’” Gokudera snaps, though the last word is spoken with an emotion Eraserhead can’t quite place.  “If I’d used that on those bastards, they wouldn’t have lived long enough to complain.”

This is honestly not how Aizawa saw this conversation going at all. Clearly, Tanaka isn’t much better, but when it becomes clear Gokudera is about to rant, Aizawa pulls the man back to keep him from interfering.

“First ass-holes thought they could intimidate me just cause they had physical quirks, as if that was enough to scare me – I don’t even remember their fucking names!  Second group of bastards thought they could attack the Ten...Tsuna. I couldn’t let that stand!  And that pervert tried to flash Kyoko! He should be grateful I’m the one that was there!  If was Turf Top he’d never walk again!”

“...And today?” Aizawa asked, when it appeared the teen was winding down. Gokudera amps up his scowl and looks away.

“Jerks from ‘Sushi No Go’ and ‘Sushero’ who aren’t happy Yamamoto’s sushi’s better than theirs” he says.  “Thought they could send a guys here and wreck the atmosphere.  Sent them packing weeks ago, but guess they thought they’d try again.”

Tsunayoshi snaps his head back in shock.  “They came back!”

Then he suddenly remembers he has an audience and his head swings back.

“Hiiieee...”

Yamamoto doesn’t look much better, closing his eyes and sighing.  

“Tsunayoshi, Gokudera, I thought we talked about this.”

“We didn’t want you to worry!” Gokudera insists.  “You do enough for us.  Me, The Baseball idiot and the Te...fuck...Tsuna, just thought we could handle it.”

“Oh, so Takeshi is involved in this too?”

Both boys wince, but Yamamoto is smiling.  It’s a little thing, but it’s definitely there.

“I thought the whole point of this whole adventure was not having to handle things on your own any more?”

“It is” Tsunayoshi insists.  “It’s just...hard to remember sometimes.”

There’s a novel to be read in these words, but this is meant to be Aizawa’s evening off, and they still have the original issue to deal with.

“Officer Tanaka, if this wasn’t quirk use, I’m not sure any serious crime was committed.”

The officer just shakes his head.  “There is destruction to public and private property.  And if your...weaponry wasn’t civilian grade-”

“They were” Gokudera insists.  “I made sure of it, just in case this happened.”

“You expected to be attacked?” Aizawa asks, and Gokudera grins.

“The laws don’t forbid using non-lethal tools for self defence” Gokudera replies.  “Quirks are forbidden unless your life is literally on the line, but the laws on weapons and explosives are severely lacking.  If a villain decided to ignore the law, having a non-illegal defence just made sense.  My bombs were perfectly legal, and I can prove it.”

The truth is, he’s not wrong.  Eraserhead has butted heads with those laws on more than one occasion.  When quirks first started appearing, the laws swooped in to corral the more destructive ones, and the traditional rules on self defence...didn’t follow.  They’re a by-product of the generations where having a quirk was rare and quirkless the norm.  Many villains get away with slaps on the wrist after dealing with Eraserhead because they fight with tools since their quirk is rendered useless.  If Gokudera Hayato has studied those laws as well as Eraserhead thinks he has, then there’s no doubt his ‘fireworks’ were within legal limits.

“I think this is something for your ethics department to deal with” Aizawa mutters to Officer Tanaka, and heads for the door.  “I’m going home.”

Maybe he can still catch Hizashi for a drink before he crashes for the night.

In the end, Gokudera Hayato is given a months community service and a severe warning not to use explosives in public areas unless his life is in danger, and although Bakugo has tried to threaten of ‘the copycat bastard’ from Aizawa several times, his reputation stops taking hits.

The nearby delinquent population however, doesn’t.  Apparently Gokudera is just as dangerous at hand to hand as he is with a quirk or explosives.  Something Aizawa learns from Hizashi once he starts listening to his Takesushi mumblings again.  

In his own way, Gokudera Hayato is a fascinating individual.  Most people, once they develop their quirk, focus on how to use it and it alone.  Willing to defend with that and take their chances in court rather than find another way.  It’s one of the reasons why self-defence laws are still so archaic – there’s no great urgency to alter them.

For someone to develop such a destructive quirk...and yet choose to fight with weapons of their own design...it’s almost a pity Gokudera never tried out for UA.  Eraserhead might have enjoyed seeing where that mind could go.  He does hope the decision wasn’t made my arrogant fools condemning the boy for having a villains quirk though, he certainly had the temper, disgust and possible history to suggest it hadn’t been an easy thing to live with.

And then there was the other boy.  Tiny and unassuming, but willing to stare down two heroes to keep his friend safe.  Eraserhead can’t help but wonder what his quirk is, and what he did to have someone so similar to Bakugo in personality, look at him with such wonder.

...But what on earth did Gokudera keep trying to call him?

#Out of this world #fanfiction #fanfic #khr #katekyo hitman reborn #BNHA #BNHA Fanfiction #KHR Fanfic #Katekyo Hitman Reborn fanfiction #Crossover #MAKE IT STOP #GET OUT OF MY HEAD #boku no hero academia

[fyodorscenarios]

Hi! May I request a scenario where Fyodor and his naive and innocent s/o gets captured by his enemies and his s/o has to dirty her hands for the first time (by killing someone for example) in order to save him? How would Fyodor react to that?

I’m glad that I finally got to write this request! I really liked the idea because I’m kinda really into writing angsty stuff for some reason. I realized in the process that I’m shit at describing torture though… I hope it came out alright nonetheless. 

Warnings: violence, death, minor descriptions of torture

-

Day 1:

The concrete is cold against your feet. You try to stay still, they just drag you. You refuse to scream; at least if you can help it.

He looks at you blankly, giving the impression that he won’t break. You know him enough to see the frustration hidden in his eyes.

There’s solace in knowing that he might have some kind of plan.

They tell you they’ll be keeping you alive until they’re sick of you. Something new everyday. He’s the main course. They’ve been waiting; it’s for revenge, but also for sick pleasure.

What he could have done for them to go to these lengths, you do not know.

They waste no time in dragging you out into the hallway and into the next room. You’re practically thrown into the chair in the centre, your arms shackled on to the chair’s arm rests.

“Why are you doing this?” you manage to mumble, not looking either them in the eyes.

One of the two men laughs, the loudness of it making you jolt.

“You actually don’t know? Well, I guess that’s what we’ll start with.” the other says, clearly amused.

The first stops laughing. “So that’s how the freak managed to find someone. Aw look, you’re even pouting! You’re like a child.” he says, tilting your head with his hand.

You spit directly into his face.

He sneers at you. A mere second afterward you feel the sting of his palm on your cheek. Your head snaps to the side, tears already threatening to spill from your eyes.

“Haven’t you noticed anything strange about that man? Or are you that fucking stupid?”

The second man speaks again. He seems to be a leader of the other, reeking of authority.

“I’m not—”

“Quiet!” he cuts you off. “That man you’re with killed my brother! That’s what this is for. An eye for an eye, understand? Or better yet, a life for a life.”

“N-no way. Why would he—”

“He’s a mass murderer you goddamn fool!” the man continued. “Has he ever said a word to you about his job? He probably comes home at the strangest hours as well, doesn’t he?”

You shook at the thought of it. The things he had said matched up, however you could scarcely picture the man you loved doing what he had been accused of. Your mind was full of fervent denial.

The underling had been busy, and had now placed a small folding table in front of you. On the table sat a folder in less than ideal condition. The label was scrawled with your boyfriend’s name.

The leader, wasting not a second, removed the folder’s contents. The top of the pile was a picture, and you assumed many others were as well.

The picture was taken from above, likely security camera footage. Your eyes were first drawn to the dead man; he lay on the floor over a pool of blood. You bit your lip as you moved on to the assailant. His white suit was spattered in blood drops, and the characteristic black cloak and white hat was present. It clearly seemed as if it might be him, though you could not see his face. The black hair creeping out from his hat and the slouch almost made it all too real.

“I can’t see his face. How do I know for sure if I can’t see his face?” you say, shaking.

The next picture is flipped, and you draw a blank.

The camera seemed to have zoomed in on the assailant’s face. You examine each aspect of it, trying to determine if it’s faked, if it’s a hoax. Though there’s nothing you can pick out. It’s the face of your boyfriend, but not one you’ve ever seen.

His unusual violet eyes are cold and dark, and a small smile sits on his face that almost seemed proud. His pale skin is also marred with blood, but certainly not his own. You almost feel faint.

Your tears begin to fall soon after, denial becoming shock and fear. The men continue to flip through the images, and there is nothing you can do but watch. Various people lie dead in each photo, their forms covered in that which once kept them alive.

“There must be an explanation,” you manage at last. “W-who are you anyway? Y-you’re criminals!”

“Sure we are, but does that mean your darling should get off scot-free? Not in my fucking opinion.” the leader says. “If your human morality is intact then maybe you’ll consider teaching him a lesson yourself?”

“I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, because it’s only fair…” you trail off, then continue. “Besides, you’re murderers yourselves, aren’t you? Why should I listen to a word you say!?”

“Suit yourself.”

-

You’re thrown back onto the floor of the cell. There’s a television in the room you hadn’t noticed before, Fyodor is staring at it, motionless. You turn to him.

“What’s the TV for?” you ask.

“You know what it’s for,” he mutters.

“Did you see all that then?”

“Of course.”

“C-can you explain this to me?” your voice shakes slightly.

“I never wanted to.”

“Well… you have no choice now.”

Fyodor sighs. “First and foremost,” he turns, staring at you intensely, “I have never taken the life of an innocent. All those I have killed have found salvation in death; existence without sin, if you will.”

“But you killed them…” you mumble.

“Does that pain you? One day, I’ll explain it all to you if you like. Though I never wanted to burden you with it. You know, you’re a very unique person. Despite the flaws of humans and their society, you’ve remained so pure and hopeful. I’ve come to love that in you, at first I thought of it as weakness.”

“I almost feel insulted. Nobody likes it, being treated like a child, not even children. I just believe that anyone can be good if they choose to. So please, why have you been doing all this?”

“For the promised land, for you, and all good people. I will rid the earth of filth for the benefit of others.” he smiles, and it’s almost eerie to you, from it you sense obsession.

You stare back at him, wide-eyed. “W-what gives you the right to judge as God would?”

“Simple. I am an extension of God, or perhaps God himself. You see my darling, in this sense it is my right.” He sighs, “I see from your eyes that you don’t believe me. No matter. Please, consider any great war figure. If a man saves his country by killing thousands of enemies with his armies, he is considered a hero, correct? Sometimes, it is justifiable to eliminate some for the benefit of others.”

“Honestly, I feel like this is too much for me to process. At least right now. I’d rather get some sleep.” you say, still visibly shaken.

“I understand. Our main objective should be to survive this for now. In any case, I deeply regret my carelessness. It never occurred to me that anyone would have the capacity to drag you into this.” he replies somewhat apologetically.

“When we get out of here, we’ll talk about it. We’ll talk about all of it.” you nod, almost as if to reassure yourself. There’s a time and a place, you decide, and this is not it.

-

Day 4:

By now, you almost knew how drowning felt. The sensation of water rushing into your throat; the result, asphyxiation, at least temporarily. It was repeated until your throat ached and blood had been carved out of your palms by your own nails.

You weren’t sure how many times they had done it. Ten times? Twenty-five perhaps? Maybe it didn’t matter, just the fact that they had done it once was enough. They had strapped you down to the floor with restraints, and placed a towel over your preemptively terrified face.

You knew that you could not be mad at water for doing what it was told. Water goes where it is directed, it has no choice. Sometimes, you thought, you were like water.

Afterwards, they told you it was no fun. You can’t hear someone scream if they’re drowning, after all. Tomorrow, they’d do something “better”, perhaps make it so you can’t hurt yourself with your nails anymore, they had laughed.

Currently, you were back on the floor of the cell, running your bloody hands over the concrete. The bruises from the second day were still present, you had never seen your limbs splotched with such unnatural colours.

When you turned, Fyodor was caught up in his usual habit, biting at the tip of his thumb. You weren’t sure if it was due to heightened stress, or just the fact that he had nothing else to do.

Fyodor turned and smiled slightly at you, and you quickly turned away.

“Are you…” he let it hang in the air for a moment, “still angry with me?”

You bury your head in your hands. “I-I’m not sure.”

Your head shoots up as your hear him move. You find him settling down beside you, arms outstretched, with an almost benign smile on his face.  

“I don’t want you to go through this alone, even if you do now think of me as some kind of monster.” he says softly.

You stare wearily at him, then down at your bloodstained hands. You feel his arms wrap around you, but decide to ignore it. His lips brush your ear, “we’re going to escape,” he whispers. “You have my word.”

-

Day 5:

The men who had captured you weren’t very cautious, Fyodor insists. They already thought that they had won, and one should never assume this until said victory was completely certain.

The underling always leaves around noon to run some kind of errand. He usually returns about two hours later. Fyodor had told you.

“They doubt you,” Fyodor states, “they like to think of you as helpless. That’s why I’ve been chained to the wall and you haven’t. Of course, this is advantageous for us. One of my subordinates will be hacking into the electronic gate to open it after the first man leaves. That means we only have to take care of the leader and get his keys to my shackles. He’ll probably rush over here when he knows that the gate’s been opened.”

“But how have you been communicating with anyone?” you ask.

Fyodor reaches behind his ear and pulls out a small earpiece. You notice that it has two buttons on one side and a speaker on the other.

“It’s a small device that allows me to send and receive morse code messages from its partner. Luckily I had brought it along with me and it wasn’t noticed.” he explains.

“And what if luck hadn’t been on our side?”

Fyodor stares at you for a moment. “I’d like to say that luck is always on the side of the righteous, but I’m too careful to leave things up to something so fickle. There’s no point in thinking of what could have been, at least not in this case.”

-

The door to your cell clicks open.

As if on cue your heart begins to race, and sudden doubts begin to swirl through your head.

“Fyodor…” you whisper. “What if our captor shows up before your subordinate?”

“I doubt that will happen, but you can prepare if that would make you feel safer. As long as we can defend ourselves before he arrives, we should be fine.” Fyodor calmly responds.

With anxiety still building within you, your eyes search for anything that could be used as a weapon in the cell. The only thing there besides the two of you is the old CRT TV sitting on the floor. You rise to your feet and try lifting it, the TV is fairly small so it isn’t too much of a task.

“Use the cord instead,” Fyodor says.

“What, the cord?” You turn to him in confusion.

“You could strangle him with it.”

“I don’t…” you mutter, “I d-don’t want to do this anymore.”

You feel your legs give out as tears threaten to spill from your eyes. Your bruised knees hit the floor and a scream rips its way through your throat. Fyodor reaches out to touch you, but as if to avoid him you crawl closer to the TV.

“D-damn it… Why can’t I stop crying? I’m just like a l-little kid.” you wipe the tears from your face. “I know what I h-have to do, okay? You don’t have to tell me.”

Hanging your head, you move your hands to the cord and remove it from its outlet and the television itself. Clutching the cord in your hands, you decide to sit in silence until someone arrives.

It hasn’t been long when you begin to hear footsteps from down the hallway. They seem to be coming from the direction your captors often come from, immediately putting you on edge. You stand and move in front of Fyodor. There’s an urge to protect him despite the things he’s done, as you’re in the same dismal position.

You freeze as you see the supposed leader enter the cell.

He smirks grotesquely at you. “What? Did you plan on killing me with that?”

You don’t even have a moment to scream as the man grabs you by the throat and rips the cord from your hand. Your vision seems to blur as you feel yourself pushed.

You hear a shattering noise as your head is slammed through the screen of the TV. Glass flies by your head and scratches up your face, but you’re able to keep your mouth shut.

Your head pounds and warm blood runs down your cheeks. For a moment, you feel as if you are unable to move, but eventually, your fingers start to twitch.

As you take a long breath through your nose, you realize that the man is no longer near you. His hands are nowhere near your throat. You can hear him speaking, but you can’t make out the words, as if they’re in a foreign tongue.

Slowly, you open one eye. Through patchy vision, you see the man’s boot atop Fyodor’s back. He has him pushed against the concrete. The man however, has put his back to you.

Your fingers of your dominant hand find their way to a long shard of glass on the floor. Slowly dragging the item into your palm, you allow the jagged edges to sink slightly into your flesh.

You make your way to your feet cautiously, so far the man hasn’t seemed to have noticed a thing. 

Then, you run.

By the time the man turns around your arm is raised. By the time he attempts to grab you the glass is already lodged deep in his throat. Your arm drops.

The man makes an inhuman noise, and you see him struggle to pull the glass from his neck. A few seconds later, his eyes roll back and his whole body drops.

Your hands shake as you stare blankly at the body. You see Fyodor crawl over to the man and go through his pockets until he finds the keys.

After freeing himself, Fyodor stands up. You feel his arms wrap around you.

You shudder. “…Haven’t I committed the worst of sins?”

“No, this was not a sin. Without men like that the world would be much better for others, wouldn’t you agree? You’ve done so well, my angel.”

You feel the tears begin again, and somehow they warm you more than his arms.

Your mind seems to go blank, almost as if it’s trying to remove you from this moment. You don’t blame it.

A man with very long hair steps into the cell, you assume him to be Fyodor’s subordinate. Fyodor leaves you to approach him, and you feel your hearing go. His steps sound muffled.

You see Fyodor say something to the long haired man, a grin painted on his face. You can’t make it out; all you hear is the beating of your own heart, as if it has risen to your head.

#requests #scenario #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs scenario #i hope nobody was confused by the implications i made lol #i'm trying to be more vague with stuff now #anon

[thetwoguineabook]

@sunnydisposish thank you so much for the awesome feedback and great questions- hope you don’t mind me responding in a new post.

I’m so in love with Blackbird I don’t even know where to begin: the beautiful writing, the impressive historical accuracy and evocative world-building, the poignant storyline and entirely novel yet still somehow in-character arcs for Victor and Yuuri, the thought-provoking questions about politics, ideology, identity, and personal responsibility so skillfully woven into the love story at its center, and last but not least, your merciless puncturing of the British imperialist/colonialist/racist mindset (especially appreciated by this former subject who grew up in what was then still a British colony).

Thank you! It was definitely interesting to me to explore, even at a slight remove as both POV characters were decidedly non-British, the very weird situation of British politics in the immediate post-war era. WW2 was really the last death knell for Britain as the big imperial power on the world stage, but frankly we as a country still haven’t come to terms with that (cf. half the electorate seriously believing that we won’t be questing paddle-less for where Shit Creek rises in the Mountains of Oh God Why without the rest of the EU). The Attlee government was, in my humble but correct opinion, the best and most socially revolutionary government we ever had, but at the same time as we were creating the NHS and nationalising industries, we were also desperately trying to develop nuclear weapons and pissing and moaning about whether countries we’d been stamping on for centuries were ~really ready~ to see the back of us. It was a truly absurd time period.

Another reason I love it is that it’s so rewarding to re-read, because each time through I notice more little details sprinkled throughout the text, like easter eggs waiting to be discovered. For example, in ch. 4 you slip in a casual mention of a drunken assignation Yuuri once had with some guy from Cambridge named “Guy” who professed to be a Communist, then in the very next section you have Georgi complaining to Victor about one of the agents he’s handling who goes by the name of “Hicks,” which is none other than the code name for Guy Burgess. :) 

Fun fact: I have a whole document in the notes section in Scrivener entitled ‘Yuuri’s ex-boyfriends’. He was... not very nice to a lot of them, lol. Once it occurred to me that, although Burgess would have come down from Cambridge before Yuuri went to Oxford, they could still very well have met (and drunk inordinate amounts of booze together) at the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, I just couldn’t resist.

Also in ch. 4, you describe one of the musicians who had performed Shostakovich’s Symphony #7 during the Leningrad siege as “a short woman with long, pale hair and a hunger-pinched face who nevertheless stared into the camera with the piercing gaze of a soldier, a clarinet clutched in her hands like a rifle” – that has got to be an image of Yura’s mother, right?

Yes! That is none other than Yulia Plisetskaya, classical musician and denouncer of Yuri’s shitty dad. I am slightly intimidated by the prospect of writing it because the situation in Leningrad was so incredibly awful, but one of my planned side stories is about the Plisetskys and the Babichevs during the siege, and particularly about that August 1942 performance of the Shostakovich symphony and Yuri beginning to repair his incredibly fucked-up relationship with her.

Oh, and she’s a clarinettist for a reason ;)

In ch. 6, when Yuuri is told he is being reassigned to Korea, there’s a mention of the new British Consul-General to Korea, Sir Vyvyan Holt, and Yuuri’s boss reassures him that “Holt is… well he’s a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot. He’ll evacuate British diplomats if - when there’s a declaration of war.” So of course, when I googled Holt’s name, I learned that not only was he a real person, but when the Korean war broke out, Holt mistakenly thought he would be protected by his diplomatic immunity, and instead of evacuating everyone when he had the chance, he and his staff ended up being detained by the North Koreans, then forced on a death march to the far north of the peninsula where they were kept captive for several years. Oh the irony. If Yuuri had accepted the assignment, he would have suffered even more at the hands of the North Koreans once they realized he was Japanese, even without knowing he was a spy. (Shudder.)

Yeah that was some thick ladling of irony there, lol. Although perhaps Yuuri would at least have got on with Holt, since one of the ‘many things’ he was at least rumoured to be was gay. And the story of what happened to the actual MI6 officer who was undercover in Holt’s office when the war broke out is... well, interesting to say the least. I’ve got an historical notes post about it that just needs to be finished up.

You’ve thought out everything so thoroughly (down to Victor’s nom de guerre, Stefan Rittberger, and the figure skating jump known as the Rittberger loop) that I have to ask whether there’s a special meaning or symbolism behind your choice of “blackbird” as the title of the story. I mean, the first association that occurred to me, especially given your nom de plume of sixpences, was the children’s rhyme “Sing a song of sixpence / a pocketful of rye. / Four and twenty blackbirds / baked in a pie.” But some light googling turned up a plethora of meanings for “blackbird,” including: a symbol of freedom, a connotation of vigilance, shyness and insecurity, secrets and mystery, etc., any and all of which could fit. Then there are the well-known songs Bye-Bye Blackbird (which had a “cameo” in ch. 5) and the Beatles’ Blackbird (the lyrics for which also fit the story), and one of my favorite poems, the haiku-inspired “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens, which is so protean and capacious in its meanings that it could definitely fit. Finally, that redoubtable (and dubious) authority urbandictionary.com gives the following meanings (inter alia) for blackbird: 1. The act of leaving a group of people, especially a social event (i.e. business party), without saying goodbye to anyone and without anyone detecting your escape. 2. Someone who acts happy in public but is an emotional wreck in private. Someone who doesn’t advertise their depression.

Well for starters, the Stefan Rittberger alias followed the same pattern as every other original character in the fic- they are all named after figure skaters from their respective countries of origin (generally speaking with forenames and surnames from different individuals). The only exception was the Jamaican jazz band leader Nigel Harriott- the only male Jamaican figure skater whose name I could turn up was Paralympic skater Nigel Davis, so I gave him the surname of a real Jamaican jazz musician who emigrated to the UK in this period.

As for the origins of ‘Blackbird’... well, for starters, the nursery rhyme connection only occurred to me quite a way into writing the fic, haha. ‘sixpences’ originated as a reference to Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle, one of my favourite novels, and as a way to reference the various notions of luck associated with the old silver sixpence coins, and also because when I picked the name six or seven years ago the Livejournal username ‘sixpence’ in the singular was already taken!

I knew from the very first vague ideas I had about the fic that this was primarily a story about Victor- his character arc, specifically getting him to the point where he would joyfully betray his country for love, was the very first thing I knew I wanted to write about, before I was even sure it was going to be an historical AU! When you get right down to it, this is a fic about that scene where Victor’s standing on the Barcelona seafront, looking out over the Mediterranean, and admiring his engagement ring- it’s a story about what Victor is not only willing, but entirely happy to do for Yuuri.

Once I knew I wanted it to be a spy story I started doing the 100% most fun spy story thing and making up everyone’s ridiculous codenames. My initial idea for Yuuri was to use something piglet-related, for obvious reasons, but that both felt a bit too mean and also not like something Minako specifically would think to call him. I wanted to give him a name that evoked the kind of figure he cuts at the start of the story- small, unassuming, lonely, but with something very deep going on beneath the surface, the same way one flighty little bird can nevertheless produce the most beautiful song. It also fitted nicely in terms of a metaphor for what he was doing in Berlin- Japan is of course ‘the land of the rising sun’, and he was ‘singing’ information to the Allies from inside their command structure.

There is a minor bird motif throughout the fic- with maybe one or two exceptions, any time a bird is mentioned in scenery description, you’ll find it’s a dark-coloured one. It wouldn’t have made the cut as an epigraph since it’s from 2005, but this from ‘Rapture’, which is one of my favourite Carol Ann Duffy poems, was very much in my mind in planning out the shape of the plot:

How does it happen that our lives can drift far from our selves, while we stay trapped in time, queueing for death? It seems nothing will shift the pattern of our days, alter the rhyme we make with loss to assonance with bliss. Then love comes, like a sudden flight of birds from earth to heaven after rain. Your kiss, recalled, unstrings, like pearls, this chain of words. Huge skies connect us, joining here to there. Desire and passion on the thinking air.

So birds recur as a symbol of independence, of thinking and acting freely even under dire and constricting circumstances, and Yuuri specifically is codenamed after a bird. It only felt natural that the story of how Victor Nikiforov, Soviet patriot and enormously valuable and accomplished spy (indeed, modelled after a man dubbed ‘the most formidable spy in history’), came to throw away his career and his country, to choose love and the freedom to live as he wanted, should share Yuuri’s name.

Sorry to be such a nerd – I’m probably overthinking all of this – and for sending you such an interminable ask (which would have overflowed the tumblr ask box 10 times over), but I would love to know the meaning behind the title.

Look, I just wrote a 100k historical spy novel about characters from a sports anime. I am the biggest nerd. And I really had a great time answering your questions, so thank you again!

#fic: blackbird

[destiel123-4-blog]

Christmas Spirit ~ Lashton Short Story

Wattpad Link: https://my.w.tt/MYD00RBkOS

In Which Luke Gets Visited By Three Of The Christmas Spirits on Christmas eve.

@lukehemmingsisapenguin it's not that good 😂

Description

This is based on the Barbie Movie with a twist ((no hate))

A chapter a day, counting to Christmas

Chapter 1

On stage, he may seem magical; his voice drifting into the air giving anyone in range goosebumps. The melody that flowed was beautiful and incomparable to anyone at the time... or in history, for that matter.

Not only was his voice angelic but the design of his Christmas tuxedo that his best friend had sewed had beautiful patterns that everyone would die to have. The colours were pastal like, so soft. Everything contrasted with, not only his pale skin and long blonde locks but his blue eyes that reminded people of the sea on a sunny day.

The people in the theatre sat quietly as they listened intensely to Luke Hemmings singing a Christmas Carol. He did this every year on the eve before Christmas, practicing for weeks before the show was actually hosted. By doing this, Luke knew his Uncle Zayn would be proud. His uncle would be proud to know that the blue eyed man had come this far and listened to his words of wisdom.

As of this moment, the blonde was finishing off a Christmas Carol next a Christmas tree, singing with all his might while everyone in the theatre sat mesmerised, some taking videos and others staring in awe.

"Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,how lovely are thy branches..."

He sang along to the tune of the guitar from the background, ending it on a high note which had the crowd whistling, throwing bouquets of roses onto the stage.

Luke plastered on a huge smile as he grabbed a bunch, "Thank you," he waved and walked back behind the line of where the curtains would close.

"Thank you all and have a merry Christmas!" He spoke to them, the curtains closing and leaving him behind stage.

"Thank you, thank you and fuck Christmas!"

He threw the roses onto the floor and stepping on them; his smile dropped from his face as he groaned, flailing his arms around.

"Why do I need to do this every Christmas? It is stupid! Christmas is stupid! If uncle Zayn were here, he would not appreciate this."

It was usual that Luke would do this, stand behind stage moaning out about how he hated Christmas to himself.

He turned around, seeing that no one was there to listen to him. It was strange because usually after every performance there is someone there, whether it be Calum rolling his eyes or Michael saying something snarky - someone is always there.

Letting out a huff of fustration, luke walked over to the lone piano that usually held his special made tea, he found absolutely nothing. Ashton hadn't been there to hand it to him like he always did. It made Luke heart drop into the pit of his stomach; this meant Ashton didn't watch his performance like usual... was there something more important?

Instead of dwelling on the thought, the blonde turned all his emotions into anger, storming of to find his best friend.

-

"Awe wow, Ashton this is beautiful!"

The two dancers, Calum and Michael, said as they stared up at the Christmas tree they had just finished decorating. The others, Niall and Ed, agreed with a nod of their heads.

It had been fun and all, forgetting about Luke and his performance and to rather just decorate the working office that just seemed too boring with just clothes, a sewing machine and props. This was much better.

"Well, obviously, it's Christmas! It's supposed to look like this."

"Talking about Christmas," Niall piped up, walking up to Michael and Ashton while Calum was occupied by Ed. "When are you going to ask Cal out? We have the holidays coming up soon and you can't wait to ask him forever."

Michael sighed,staring at the man who had somehow stolen his heart. "I don't know, I want to but-"

Ashton laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, smiling lightly, "go up to him, mate. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

The man that had his hair dyed blonde and an extremely long fringe nodded,digging in a deep breath and walking over to the tanned boy.

"Cal," he started, twiddling his fingers. Calum smiled shyly at his friend, red coating his cheeks. "Will you go out with m-"

"Ashton!" A screech came from the door across th room, an angry looking luke stood there.

"Where were you? You were supposed to,not only watch my performance but to also bring me my tea!"

A frown formed on the designers face,strutting over to his best friend and ex-lover. "What do you mean? The stage crew made sure to make your tea. I was too busy."

Luke huffed, "they didn't brew it right and there is way too much sugar!" The blue eyed man whined. As much as everybody still found the blue eyed babe annoying, Ashton still held him close to his heart. Even after years of not being together, he still loved him.

"Stop complaining, at least you got it."

He sighed,"fine!" Luke crossed his arms over his chest then replayed Ashton's words in his head, "what was so busy that you couldn't watch?"

"Well, we were decorating for Christmas before the holidays!" Ashton was excited to be telling his friend about this but he saw the anger flare in the man's blue eyes.

"Christmas is nothing! It is just a useless day that is used to excuse no working. Now, unless you want to be jobless then you will be coming to work tomorrow and rehearse the entire week and that is final!"

Luke was so angry, he turned around and began walking out, ignoring the calls of his name from everybody. "But, Luke..." there was a whimper that made him stop. The blonde turned around and found hazel eyes staring into his own in a pleading manner. "You know how much visiting my family on Christmas means to me... you can't just-"

For a slight moment, Luke felt like he would give in but then he remember his uncle Zayn's words: "in a selfish world, only the selfish succeed."

"That. Is. Final." Luke seethed, walking out and leaving the rest to say rude things about him. He didn't care though, he was the star, not them.

-

The blonde was in bed, his sleeping mask over his eyes as he tried getting sleep but the thought of Ashton just made his chest ache. He wanted the golden haired man back in his arms... but he couldn't.

Just as he was dozing off a loud bang came from the room. Luke jumped up and out of his silk sheets, throwing his mask to the side as he inspected his room. There was no sign of anyone so he went back to his bed.

"Hold on a second, boy." The voice was stern and eerie but the blonde would recognise that voice from anywhere.

He turned around, gasping as he saw his late uncle Zayn.

"Well, don't just stand there. Keep your mouth closed. I would've thought you'd know your manners by now.

He shut his mouth, staring at the ghostly figure in shock. "How are you here?" He asked quietly, walking over. The man just chuckled.

"I am here to help you."

"Help me? With what? I am fine." Luke snorted out which only gave him a glare from his uncle who seemed to be a ghost. There was obviously nothing holding him up or tying him down... and luke may have shoved his hand through the body... so yeah... he accepted it for as it was. He believed in spirits either way, thanks to a TV show called Supernatural.

"And right there, your attitude is just horrible." Uncle Zayn had said, grimacing at him. Luke didn't understand, this is exactly how he was brought up to be like.

Luke shook his head, "you're obviously not real. You made me this way! You raised me this way! Keeping me in isolation in order to become who I am now! Just... who ever you are, leave now."

"Or what? This is me. After dying, I realised that raising you to become who I wanted to be was wrong... and now I'm trapped. I'm trying to save you, don't you see that?"

There was no response from the blonde, he just kept his mouth shut because he didn't want to get shouted at yet again. Instead, he listened carefully just wanting to block him off.

"Since we have that sorted... Tonight I will be sending you three spirits. One will be of the past, the other of the present and lastly of the future. They are my very own Christmas spirits and dear friends. Now sleep, boy and remember..."

The man's voice faded and the room went cold, giving Luke goosebumps. He didn't want to believe anything and rather passed it off as a strange dream as he fell on his bed and fell into a deep slumber.

#luke hemmings #ashton irwin #calum hood #michael clifford #lashton #spiritguide #christmas #past present future

[indigogoinggone-blog]

Mennonite and Mexico

Checking my prejudice

It had been three days since I stuck out my thumb and tied my bike to the backseat of this Mexican man’s car. We are in hot pursuit of the greatest taco in the Yucatan as we hurtle ever closer to the Belizean border that will signify our parting of ways. Presently we are in the armpit of some great God. It smells pugnant, moist and like heavy immovable air - though this is not a necessarily a bad smell. The God showers regularly and eats well it would seem, which figures given its divine status and probable access to green smoothies, but smell aside it is the stifling heat that is the dominating sensation inside the vehicle. I turn to my new friend. “Mucho calor, putaaaaaa.” He wears a necklace of sweat beads as he declines to verbally answer, instead making a rapid right turn.

He tells me that he remembers seeing a beach marked here on the map, and sure enough, a parking space emerges in our line of vision, flanked by vendors of every description. Particularly pleasing to me was the peddling of mango in all its forms. Do you want it dried? Fresh and sliced? Diced? Whole? With chilli? Frozen? On a kebab? As a juice? Ohhhh sweet fruit, oh sweet, sweet package of sugar and joy, my mouth salivates and hands exchange pesos for you eagerly. There is a childish and excitable fevor gripping both my partner and I. We have mango juices dripping perversely from chin to chest, eyes alight with a sugar rush, and tyranny of the humidity forgotten. Car parked, we join the throng that is descending upon the gracious shores of the Carribean.

And here is when something happens that has been stuck in the machinery of my reflection, trying to churn out an understanding for the last two weeks. It begins with a young boy holding up a bag of apples to me. “Quiero?” He asks. In immediate essence he isn’t profoundly different from the dozens of other vendors littering the path to the beach. I decline his offer for the apples, and begin to walk ahead when something - I don’t exactly know what - forces me to stare at him a little longer. It’s his eyes that I notice first. Trauma. A hand squeezes my maternal heart and instinct, gently at first and then with a paralysing gusto. Having seen traumatised children before, and having been close to trauma and it’s side effects for many of my recent years, a strange sense for its manifestations has developed. I can’t look away. His little eyes are flickering from me to my partner to the ground, with that tragic vagueness indicative of a childhood robbed. His tiny frame flinches as I reach above his head for my hat, as if he were reacting to a pulled punch. I’m so consumed by the mother within me that I hadn’t noticed the more obvious oddities to his appearance.

His eyes are blue, skin freckled and pale and tiny frame sporting dusty look overalls. Cowboy hat and turned up shoes, he looks as though he been pulled from the set of a bad B grade movie, probably starring Reagan in his hey day. But he was speaking Spanish? My friend catches my eye in shared confusion. We watch as the little boy picks his way through the crowds, stopping to tempt others with his apples. None of the locals seem put off by his strange appearance and I conclude it must be me who is the strange one then. I watch the kid find his way back to a group of similarly dressed kin. A whole group of what looks like conservative Amish meets Mormon meets traditional farmers named McDonald. Six people in total, peddling apples and carrots and bracelets like the Mayan and a Mexican vendors around them, and all dressed in either overalls, cowboy hat and turned up shoes (male) or thick, oppressive, dirt length dresses with a bonnet and ribboned hat (female). All pale, blue eyed, freckled and tall amongst a population of dark eyed and sun tanned small peoples.

The mother in me recoils at the sight of who appears to be the patriarch. He has cruel lips and eyes almost totally enveloped by his eyebrows. I don’t understand the literal translations of his words, but his tone is terrifying. In what I can only describe as an act of self preservation, I grasp the hand of my friend and walk only a pace away from running all the way to the beach. I ask him if he knows why there would be gringos in farm clothes like that, but he’s from the Baja. He’s got no idea. I can’t help think how fucking weird they seem. These predjudiced thoughts begin to take over, fuelled by my instinct that something wasn’t right. Or is it vice versa? Did I fill their narrative with violence simply because they were different and i didn’t understand their presence?

On my ride south to the border, I see a group dressed so similarly that there’s no mistake they share some common set of beliefs. This time the group is on horseback, drawing carts of furniture. While they certainly look a little different to the other people here, I don’t have a sick and alarming feeling in my stomach when I look at them.

Again, crossing the border into Guatemala I see one more family dressed in these overalls and cowboy hats that cover their blue eyes. Who are they? Where did they come from? My sense of fear has entirely disappeared and is replaced by blatant curiosity. Some deep seeded biological part of me recognises them as people who look similar to me in base appearance, and wants to connect with them. Understand why those who look like me dress differently. What is their story?

And in some ironic symbolism of the modern age, I am walking through Flores - after deciding that I will live here for a month or two - and outside the alter of Burger King I see a tribe of Mayan vendors and a tribe of these same pale farmer-esque peoples. Finally I’m in a position to quench my curiousity. I approach them with my hands behind my back in what I hope is the most non threatening and approachable body language possible. In broken Spanish I ask where they are from and what their names are. Their accents are much thicker than other Guatemalans and I struggle to associate meaning with a lot of what they are saying. I pick up on Mennonite, El Ramate, family, God and a few other key words. Eventually I smile a little awkwardly and bid them farewell. In an act of human connection, one of the ladies emerges from behind who appears to be her husband and breaks off half of her Burger and extends it to me. I eat fast food for the first time in five years and ponder the absolute absurdity that is this situation. Traditionally dressed Mayans and who I now understand to be Mennonites eat a product of the American consumerist culture that is both intentionally and unintentionally swallowing their cultures alive. And they share this product with me, who is also somewhat a product of consumerist culture. Strange strange strange. Gringo meets Mayans in colourful skirts meets other white skinned farmers who nonetheless speak a dialect the gringo does not understand.

Still these moments mulled over in my mind. I went searching for Mennonites on the inter webs and found their long history in the Americas. They were a new sight to me and my friend from the Baja because they migrated down the Carribean coast, settling in enclaves that still loosely exist today. From my understanding - and perhaps you could enlighten me if you know anything about them - they came from Europe during the settling of the Americas like many persecuted réglions groups. They have a story similar to many minority groups with themes of isolationism, cultural celebration, technological rejections and persecution. I experienced a major twinge of guilt upon recognising my own prejudices and perceptions. My composite image of an average person right now was so far removed from their image that immediately upon seeing them in Mexico for the first time, i immediately passed judgement. I felt threatened and perceived them as hostile, when perhaps they were not. However, I didn’t perceive future groups of their people as hostile, only curiosities. I think perhaps there is an instinctual understanding of who constitutes a threat, and who appears traumatised. But I’m still unsure. I’m unsure if my construction of them as Other influenced the way I saw their dynamics. I am aware that I am human and that I have these biases and tendencies to misconstrue the Other. In the same breath, I felt the traumitised state of a child and minorities have their share of abuse and abusers as any group of people do.

I guess my point of this whole rant is my awakening to how pervasive our perceptions of Other are in shaping our understanding of people. All it took was one conversation to break down the barrier between them and I; suddenly they were not an oddity but a part of the environment and landscape as anyone else. I no longer had residual fear or suspicion when I saw a group of them, simply because I spoke to them and took an interest in their history of movement. However my initial contact was influenced by the look of trauma I am uncomfortably familiar with. People are never entirely good or bad; there is no way to paint one group with one brush stroke; there is only fluidity, life, suffering and joy all in one. I think also my expectation that farm clothes and horse and cart riding entails cult like behaviour and therefore abuse needed to be challenged. Cults certainly entail a predisposition to abuse, but farm clothes, a rejection of technology in the favour of God and a tight knit cultural community do no entail a cult. And here ends my untangling of such a small series of encounters.

You know me, I can’t let the little things go. I have to understand, have to connect the dots. So I felt like sharing that one instance of dot collecting and drift into deep thought, though I have countless, day in and day out. It’s a powerful thing to travel. To move and migrate. To live in various places across Earth. Oh yes I forgot to mention, I live in Flores Guatemala now. Work at a bar and have wonderful neighbours. I will be here about a month before I hitch hike again. In any case, having homes, friends, experiences and a sense of movement has eroded any lingering belief in the story of the nation. We are people on a planet. Diverse peoples and often strange environments, but still just people on a planet. More similar than we are different. Mmmmm I have hooked into my meditative practises more regularly recently, and the sense of clarity is much appreciated.