#everything is doomed and nothing will be spared
Text
This is part of a longer thing I may post on ao3 at some point but here’s some silly little Jaytim texting AU. I use this format as a writing warmup.
[Unknown] »
Hey. This is Jason.
I have a favor to ask. You can say no.
« tim
uh
1. i’m aware of how favors work
2. what is it?
« tim
?
« tim
hey are you like. good
J »
Yeah fine
Sry. Rethinking this maybe
« tim
what, do you need a kidney or something?
i can’t give you a kidney.
i don’t have any organs to spare.
J »
What ?
« tim
what’s the favor?
J »
I wouldn’t ask if it wasnt important
I’d ask Roy but hes in star city
or Kori but shes off world
I tried dickhead but hes in haven. Cant get away tonight
« tim
yeah jason i get it lol
J »
So Im currently in the cargo hold of a private yacht
« tim
what >?
J »
We’re caught in the storm thats hitting the city its a whole thing.
« tim
are you in the cargo hold of your own volition or did someone put you there
J »
So I dont think I can get back t
No its on purpose
« tim
hang on. you’re in gotham bay right now? in a boat?
jason this storm is really bad.
it’s already sunk a houseboat and a fishing boat at the marina
J »
I dont think I can get back totown toni
Christ you type fast
Shut up for a sec. Clam down
Clam*
*Calm fuck me
Thought I was gnna be back tonight but bc of storm its not looking great.
Can you feed my sourdough starter
« tim
what
J »
4511 overhill apt 6D
Key under the neighbors mat. 6H
« tim
hey to clarify. “its not looking great” ← what does that mean
J »
Starter is on counter. in glass jar
Should just need one feeindg. Maybe 2. depending
« tim
on???
J »
On wwhen I get back?
« tim
so you do plan on coming back
J »
Yeah timothy I’m in a boat not the heart of Mount Doom
« tim
yeah? vaders not there? so that means everything’s fine?
J »
Did you
jst say Vader
As in Darth
« tim
???
J »
Oh my god
« tim
jason are you in peril or what.
J »
No im not in “peril” lol.
Did you see the thing I said about my sourddough starter
It needs to be fed
« tim
wtf is a sourdough starter
nvm i googled it
J »
Its a live bacteria colony you use to m
Oh ok
Yeah so it just needs 50g lukewarm water + 50g flour
Theres a scale next to the jar
Stir until it looks like hummus
Put lid back on
The end
« tim
the internet says if you put it in the fridge it doesn’t need daily feedings
J »
Sure. But that would mess up my bread schedule
« tim
your bread schedule
J »
Man are gyou gonna fuckin feed Breadie Mercury or should I find someone else
« tim
im already en route.
J »
Oh
Ok
Thank you.
Wtf dont text and motorbike
« tim
how about you dont text and Sinking Boat
J »
Hey its not like I’m gonna cause a boat crash
« tim
i was stopped at a red light 😐
anwyay i’m at your place.
1. why do you not have a security system. when you said key under the neighbor’s mat i thought you were joking.
2. how warm is lukewarm
J »
1. I’m the security system
« tim
just rolled my eyes so hard it actually physically hurt
J »
God youre annoying
2. ? Its lukewarm
« tim
ohhhhh thanks! that’s so helpful :) here i am trying not to murder your incredibly important bacteria colony that i just drove across town for but no thats great jason very descriptive thanks :)
J »
Like warm but not too wram, nothing you’d want to take a bath in
Can you fucking
I TYPE SLOW.
« tim
ok.
[Image Attached]
he is fed
J »
Thanks man.
Sincerely.
« tim
so hows the cargo hold going
still intact i assume?
J »
Mostly ya
« tim
pardon?
J »
Slight leakage. Nothing major
« tim
oh? are you a boatologist now?
i dont think you’re qualified to judge that?
J »
Moving right past “boatologist” out of the goodness of my heart.
Chill lol. If it was rly bad thered probably be some sort of alar
Hm.
« tim
did an alarm just start going off
J »
Dont worry about it
« tim
im not.
did it though
also which yacht? im in the marinas scheduling dtabase
blue miracle, serendipity, carp-e diem? which one
« tim
jason?
« tim
if this is a joke it’s not funny
oh cool you’re not on comms either. great.
hey if youre dead again and i just fed your stupid starter for nothing im gonna be soooo mad just fyi
« tim
ugh.
*
J »
Hey
Thanks again for the
I’m not gonna say “save” bc I was doinf just fine on my own.
But thanks for the backup.
Lmk when youre home
Nope sorry lol you dont have to do that.
Night.
« tim
home
J »
Also I just saw your messaages from
Ah. 👍
From earlier.
« tim
you mean from when you said “huh, this boat seems to be filling with water” and then disappeared? those messages?
J »
Those were not my exact words.
« tim
right. your exact words contained somehow even less information
J »
Shut up
I just wanted to
You know. Youre the only one who jokes about it
The only one in the family I mean
your family, I mean
The bats.
« tim
?
the only one who jokes about what
J »
Me being dead
« tim
oh.
ok. well
its not like. actually funny to me. i was just annoyed. sorry i guess
J »
No thats not
Tim. Shut up.
I dont mind. I like that one of you does.
Its better than people talking around it. Like its this big shameful thing I did.
One of many
If I mention it in front of dickhead he does the face
the :~{ face
« tim
wow its uncanny
uh. for the record.
i don’t think that’s the reason people talk around it
if im correct in thinking that by “people” you mean “one specific person whose name rhymes with Rat Can”
J »
Yeah well
I just
Christ never mind. Im sorry. You are not the person to be sayign this to.
Im gonna shut the fuck up I think.
Goodnight.
« tim
oh what, you can’t talk to me about being dead bc of that one time you tried to kill me?
and failed btw :/
J »
Tim
Not to be so unchill
But you know how me being dead isnt actaully funny to you
« tim
…got it. sorry
J »
No. don’t apologize to me
Ever
I’m serious
« tim
like for anything?
what if i killed breadie mercury
J »
You didnt. He is thriving
« tim
he is?
wait. really?
you can tell?
J »
[Image Attached]
Hes doubled in size since you fed him.
« tim
whoa
J »
Yup. Thanks again for thattoo.
*that too
Its stupid but hes kinda my son.
« tim
wouldn’t he technically be like, 10 billion sons
J »
He is my 10 billion sons.
« tim
lolol
wow. why am i so pleased hes thriving lol
J »
Right
« tim
jeez
i was so worried about the water temp
google said lukewarm is 98-105 so i did 98 to be safe
J »
You used a thermometer?
« tim
your instructions were vague!
i didnt want to kill your bacteria colony!
J »
Thanks Tim.
« tim
? you already said that lol
i gotta pass out btw
glad you didnt die: the sequel in a yacht
that would have been so cringe
night jason
J »
Night
*
J »
You up?
« tim
obviously
why
J »
Could use your eyes on something.
[Image Attached]
« tim
morse code but the dots and dashes are reversed and its spelling backwards in russian, ASTITP AYALEB AVD RTSIRP → PRISTR DVA BELAYA PTITSA → PIER TWO WHITE BIRD
J »
Bc it looks like morse but its not, its kind of scrambl
Ok jesus christ .
30 seconds? Seriously? Fuck me
Can I hire you? Jesus lol
« tim
that depends. do you pay more than batman?
J »
The fuck? Does he pay you guys now?
« tim
no.
J »
Then yes. I do pay more than batman.
« tim
how much more
J »
One coffee per codebreak?
« tim
:\
J »
Two coffees per codebreak
Two and a loaf of sourdough
« tim
sourdough from breadie mercury?
J »
Ya
« tim
done
J »
Damn. I feel like you should have higher standards
« tim
i mean i was already gonna do it for free
now i have successfully negotiated coffee & sustenance
im on a roll. nothing but Ws
J »
Ws?
« tim
its young people slang you wouldn’t get it ❤️
J »
I am barely 3 years older htan you.
It could be argued, considering certain events, that we’re basically the same age.
« tim
and yet you text like an old, old man
J »
I do not
Would you rather I texted like “idk brb lmao roflcopter”
« tim
ROFLCOPTER?
oh my god. ohhhhhh jason. oh my god
that is absolutely not what the kids are saying these days. oh my god
J »
Ok you know what. At least I know Mount Doom isnt a Star Wars thing
« tim
?
oh, is it star trek?
J »
I’m 99% sure youre antagonizing me on purpose
But have you seriously not read or watched Lord of the Rings
« tim
no i have not.
J »
Hm.
« tim
what
J »
Nothing.
« tim
……….what
*
« tim
did you NARC on me
to BRUCE
about LORD OF THE RINGS?????
J »
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
« tim
WHY DO I NOW HAVE 3 SEPARATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON “HOUSE MEETINGS” BLOCKED OFF IN MY CALENDAR, JASON?
WHY ARE THEY EACH 4 HOURS LONG?
WHY ARE THEY LABELED “CULTURAL EDUCATION (MANDATORY)”?
J »
I can’t pretend to know what goes on in B’s mind.
That said, I have reason to believe he and Alfred take lotr pretty seriously.
« tim
its a TWELVE HOUR MOVIE
about GOBLINS
J »
I’m not gonna respond to that bc I know youre just lashing out.
« tim
if youve sentenced me to 12 hours of a movie i hate i’m gonna hack everything you own.
im gonna mass text the entire cape wearers community the footage of that time condiment king kicked your ass so bad he felt guilty and offered to personally help you out of the mustard pool
J »
What the fuck
How do you fuckig know about ?????? that????????
Not that ithahpened
What hefuckk ??
« tim
ooooooooo you better hope i love these goblins!
J »
Why are you?? evil??
« tim
you should have killed me when you had the chance!!
sorry.
J »
Its ok. That one was pretty funny tbh.
Oh hm shouldnt have laughed just then. Bad timing on my part
Brb
« tim
uh
« tim
ok…….. getting reports of a “disturbance” at pier two……..
« tim
sorry were you texting me *mid-standoff* with the russian mafia
« tim
ugh.
*
« tim
you know tracking your location would be so much easier if i didn’t have to hack into your comm sys every time
luckily your encryption is garbage but still. its 2 minutes of my life i wont get back.
J »
Not sure I recall giving you permission to track my location?
« tim
oh i’m sorry. next time i will simply leave you to go down with a texas oil magnate’s incredibly tacky yacht, or get swiss cheesified by mobsters
J »
Hey I wrapped up the russians myself
« tim
yeah?
J »
…
Yeah….
« tim
so you thought the 12-minute universal signal jam was the act of a benevolent god?
J »
:-|
« tim
im just saying it would be significantly more efficient if you agreed to a tracker
just one little tracker. you wouldn’t even notice it’s there.
think of all the time and energy you’d save me
J »
I feel the need to point out that you don’t have to repeatedly hack my comms system.
« tim
i mean it’s that or monitor sightings on the gocitizen app
i have an algo that texts relevant pings to me, which is super helpful for when i want an inbox full of random people talking about how hot you are. less helpful for literally every other circumstance
J »
Uh
What
« tim
how hot *red hood is. to clarify
in their opinion
the people’s opinion
J »
?
« tim
the people of gotham city
J »
The people of Gotham city do not think Red Hood is hot lol
« tim
wait
i cant tell if you’re being serious
J »
Uh? Yeah Im being serious? Lol tf
Why would they think hes hot
They dont think Batman is hot
« tim
o…kay…
huh.
how to… hmm
J »
Like nightwing sure
And the girls. Bc of objectification of women
« tim
oh wow
J »
Red Robin. If i had to guess
But when people see Hood its definitely not… that kind of response lol
« tim
what kind of response, exactly
J »
You know like saying “Hey Hood youre hot”
« tim
oh, wow.
okay. ummm
hmm. one sec.
J »
?
« tim
check your email
J »
Ok…?
J »
Oh my fucking god.
« tim
yeah
J »
Oh my god?
« tim
yeah
J »
This document is fucking 45 pages long?
« tim
its everything from the past 30 days yeah
J »
The past
Whaht the fuck
Ok some of these people definitely got hit by Poison Ivy.
This is . Tim wtf. I havent even heard of some of this stuff.
« tim
oof are you on page 14
J »
Im on page 3???
« tim
oh my god
J »
What the fuck
Please please tell me its not like this for Batman too
Tim
« tim
its not like this for batman :)
J »
Ok. Jesus. I would genuinely have to move cities.
« tim
its worse :)
J »
Oh what the fuck
Oh my fucking god page 14.
You get this shit TEXTED to you?????
Ohm ygod. You read this?????
« tim
i mean
no
i glance at it
for security purposes.
i dont like, read it read it
anyway did you seriously not know? haha
J »
No??? Again its not like people tell me
« tim
yeah but
like
theres a certain level of objectivity involved, here
yknow
sorry im trying to find a non awkward way to be like “have you looked in a mirror lately”
« tim
sorry
that was in fact awkward!
nvm
just let me know if you’d be ok with the tracker. its fine if not
i was mostly joking about the hacking
J (From Work) »
No you weren’t.
« tim
no i wasnt
i dont mind though. its like a brain teaser
anyway im going dark for patrol, later
*
J (From Work) »
[Screenshot Attached]
[Screenshot Attached]
[Screenshot Attached]
[Screenshot Attached]
[Screenshot Attached]
Question. why is the average Gotham citizen a raging horndog
« tim
oh my god
you know i can tell you searched “red robin hot” right
J (From Work) »
Figured it was only fair
[Screenshot Attached]
This persons got some mad zoom lens skills
I’d think it was you, if it wasnt, yknow, you
« tim
wow. that is certainly a photo of my ass
…a stellar photo of my ass. wow.
do you have a direct link? i gotta send this to steph
J (From Work) »
goctz.app/user/3824973/post/29348230df3
Haha
I kinda thought you and blondie broke up
back on again?
« tim
no lol we are very much just friends
she has a thing going with someone who shall remain nameless but suffice to say it’s Going
anyway we just send each other gocitizen vigilante ass shots
its a whole genre
they’re like trading cards
J (From Work) »
Guess everyone’s got a hobby?
« tim
the only rule is no nightwing
J (From Work) »
Do I want to know why
« tim
he accounts for a frankly overwhelming percentage of vigilante ass shots
so its too easy
you’d THINK we’d have a no-batman rule, because ew, but due to the cape and his sixth sense for cameras pointed at him, a qualifying shot is actually extremely rare.
← only guy who ever managed to take quality photos of batman
anyway, we put it to a vote. i lost.
J (From Work) »
A vote between you and Steph?
You lost a 50/50 vote?
« tim
i dont wanna talk about it.
J (From Work) »
Right.
So what I’m getting from this is you have Red Hood ass shots in your phone.
« tim
no
J (From Work) »
No?
« tim
well
J (From Work) »
Yeah?
« tim
we don’t like, save them
that would be weird
we just notify each other. professionally, as colleagues
and keep an ongoing points tally
thats all
so i do not currently have photos of your ass in my phone. thank you
J (From Work) »
How many points is my ass worth
« tim
i hate everything about this conversation
J (From Work) »
Its 100% your own fault, answer the question
« tim
if you must know.
points are awarded based on a series of objective scoring criteria.
J (From Work) »
Uh huh. Like what
« tim
technical excellence
composition. lighting and color balance.
dynamism
J (From Work) »
Dynamism…
« tim
creativity
umm
emotional impact
and
subject matter
J (From Work) »
I see.
« tim
ok i know it sounds bad
J (From Work) »
It sounds fucking hysterical Im near tears
« tim
but if you think abou
oh
okay, well, great
J (From Work) »
I’ll let you know if I stumble on any more.
Or is that cheating
« tim
its totally cheating
please do
J (From Work) »
You got it red. 👍
« tim
:)
#jaytim#can’t emphasize enough that this is a silly thing i wrote for Me and My Friends but sharing here as well lol#my writing
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𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
Zombie Apocalypse AU w/ Gwendoline Christie characters; (~9.2K words)
(Featuring: Larissa Weems, Brienne of Tarth, Jane Murdstone, Anna from WTM, Lucifer Morningstar, Miranda Hilmarson, Captain Phasma, and Jan Stevens) x Reader
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
It started about two months ago. Russia went down first, then Mongolia. China. India. And in the midst, Finland, Sweden, Norway, the United Kingdom, down to the very southern tip of Africa. The Ocean is no killer of disease, frozen or not, and encouraged it to ravage South and North America, then Canada and Greenland. Until every place was overrun by dead freaks. Stinking corpses and moving gore.
They traveled in herds, packs, whatever it was that people wanted to call them—murders, perhaps—and shuffled aimlessly across any land they could find. Eager for food, for sustenance, to fill the empty bellies that would never be full. Gorging themselves on creatures like you.
Officially ‘the other’. Officially ‘the enemy’. The sole survivor of a good group that was attacked some days ago because an idiot forgot to shoot one of the creatures in the head. And by sunrise, it was over. Screams echoed into the silence and you soon found yourself alone… running for your life with a duffle bag over your shoulder (slowing you down) and a gun in your hand (low on ammo). Trekking through thick woods in a heavily-infested Vermont town was not a good idea, but you had no choice. The house you were camping in was left behind, ravaged by bullets that you put into your friend’s heads, and every other spot nearby had been looted. You couldn’t move all of those bodies yourself. You couldn’t do much yourself. There was no army background attached to your name, no conspiracy theorist survival-obsessed gene in your body, and not much training in fighting either. All you could do was run. Run and run and run until you were miles away and your lungs started to burn. Not the most useful skill considering most people could run, but if you were quick enough to speed past the shuffling bastards, you were quick enough to make it to safety.
—
Safety…what a joke. A shit joke. A joke that was, quite honestly, the worst joke to ever exist. There was no safety. No place, nowhere. You’d been walking for a few hours, hearing nothing but the forest’s silence, and stumbling over leaves and branches. They ravaged the animals, took them into their mouths like they were people, and ate until there was nothing left. Not even a squirrel, or a fox, and the birds had grown weary of the vast number of hunters (both dead and undead) that found themselves in the woods looking for food. So no birds either. And no houses. And you were pretty sure, as you paused to catch your breath, that you were doomed.
Only a few bullets left and your aim was never perfect. One knife tucked into your waistband but it was getting uncomfortable, digging into your skin, and caked in blood. Creature blood. Everything smelled horrible. Like burning flesh or dirty meat, raw and soiled. You probably didn’t smell too good either. It wasn’t like the world still worked without the people; only a few places had running water and you couldn’t trust the creeks and rivers. The undead enjoyed walking through shallow water, knowing somehow that there’d probably be prey nearby.
But you hadn’t seen anything in a while. A long while. A suspiciously long while...
Everything was green and brown around you, whisked by wind and soil, and you stood out like blood against snow. The last thing you saw was yesterday. Ever since? Not a single flash of undead flesh.
You swallowed, throat embarrassingly dry, and tapped your fingers against your thigh.
It wasn’t good when everything was still. You were vulnerable, out in the open, and without a good few rounds of bullets to spare. Every muscle and organ in your body screamed for mercy, crying with the effort it took to keep surviving even when you didn’t want to.
You thought about it a few times; gave the gun in your hand a long look on several occasions, but ultimately decided that ‘opting out’ was only a last resort. Somehow, even amidst the chaos and hatred and swill of humanity’s nature, you managed to hold hope. And often wondered where it would get you. How it would get you. While you were sleeping? While you were already wounded? Fighting off the hands of a loved one? The twist of hope’s rope… would you feel it closing in around your neck? A literal metaphor for the eventual death you’d experience?
Thinking about it gave you a headache.
For where was the point in wondering?
You had no one else. Whatever form of death awaited, it would end up being your fault. Probably because you couldn’t run fast enough. Probably because-
Because-
Wait.
Somewhere behind you, on the right, was a low sound. A hum. The smooth whoosh of something quick. The parting of wind… the low growl of…
“Fuck.”
You shot off in that direction, bag smacking against your shoulder blades, and instantly felt the exhaustion pull at your body again. It lingered like a plague, like the undead disease, and you yearned to fall to your knees - to give in - but it wasn’t the time for that. You had to at least try. You had to at least make it over the hill. Right over the hill. So close but so far. You leaned forward, threw yourself at the ground, and grasped onto gnarled tree roots. The Earth smelled wet with decay, sweet with promise - you huffed against dry leaves. They crunched and scratched at your fingers, eventually crinkling into nothing when your arms worked to drag you up. You probably looked a little mad, scrambling up a steep hill to reach something that probably won’t save you, but there was no other option. The hum grew louder, the quiet was broken, and you only had a few moments to get this right.
“Help!” Your lungs caved around your scream, but the forest swallowed it instantly. Greedy trees with their greedy barks, wanting to keep you hidden from salvation. The hum grew louder. Your fingers grew clammy, sweating and slipping against rough wood.
You’d be bruised to high heaven later, and probably exhausted, but the hum and the growl of an engine meant a road and a road meant civilization and goddammit you just needed to get over the stupid fucking hill.
There was a loud ringing in your ears, nearly deafening, and making your voice sound fuzzy.
“Help! Help!”
Was that you? Were you the one screaming like that? Why couldn’t you be quiet? Those things could have been lurking… wandering nearby… coming up behind you, eager to grasp at your ankles and drag you back down to Hell.
A glance back over your shoulder, aching from the duffle bag, found nothing but blurred terrain and darkened leaves–a symptom of the setting sun. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If the light went out, you’d be screwed. You couldn’t use the last of your matches and the world went black when evening struck. So there really was no choice. As the growl turned into a roar… there was no choice. Just a little higher- a little more. Your arms pushed, biceps straining against the cotton of your shirt, and your pants threatened to get caught on wayward sticks and tear into rags. The boots on your feet pressed hard against loose rocks, kicking them out of place, and gained just enough ground to push you up - over the ridge. The final stretch. Your chest pushed to the hard dirt and forced a grunt of effort from your tired body; the sound echoed through the woods, through the ground, and through the air that sat above the concrete road in front of you. Hard and vast, grey and long… you looked at it as though it were the holiest of grails, lying just beside it with your arms outstretched, your fingers still pulling at dirtied grass. Soil covered your skin, masked your features, caked beneath your fingernails, and when the roar of the speeding vehicle grew so close you had to close your eyes and wince, you knew raising a hand for help would not be enough. In the shade of the forest’s edge, half draped over the peak of the hill, you were inhuman to other survivors. Your dry mouth opened, your throat croaked, and your legs moved to push you up–closer–just short of the wind that caressed your hair when the car, the truck, ran past you with no second glance. You looked after it, watched it pass, and felt the burn in your heart grow into its own inferno. It licked at your insides, at your desperation, and had you hauling the duffle bag off of your shoulder and out onto the road. It rolled, a shuffling sound, and you followed after it with deep growls of effort and dwindling strength.
“Please,” you wheezed, panting for breath as soon as you staggered up to your feet.
In the distance, the car turned into a disappearing black spec. It drove and drove, out of sight, and you stood there, putting your arms in the air to wave it down and bring it back. To beckon it back. To beg and plead.
“Please please no-,” your voice was soft, weakened by days of rugged survival, “no…” rough and lost to the wind, it dissipated into nothing and you were forced to swallow again.
The thick smell of car exhaust settled against the steaming road. You watched the horizon, tracking the space in the atmosphere where the gold traced into a deep blue, and felt your bones quake beneath your skin. Their final cry. The last hurrah as you watched your future, the tatters of it, drive away from you.
Too late.
You were too late.
And you’d die there, on that road, and they may never come back and find you again in the morning. And your corpse would be chewed upon by undead bastards who would never give you a proper burial. And you’d be just another stupid human that found themselves trampled beneath the stinking feet of the walking dead.
Tears teased your eyes, burning the dry lands of your irises, and you felt the heart in your chest lurch against its cage.
Too late.
You were too late.
You had a duffle bag, a handgun somewhere off to the side, and the clothing on your back. One lasting water bottle, the knife you felt poking your side, and small bags of food that wouldn’t last you long at all. The tent, too, was destroyed by animals the night before. The most you could go was perhaps one more day, but your feet were aching so terribly that each step was a journey within itself. And you couldn’t push yourself to go further. There was no further. There was nothing in the woods and there was nothing beyond the road and you were running on fumes that no longer existed.
But you couldn’t just lie there and take it. You were about to reach over, bending at the waist, to grab your bag. To pull it up over your shoulder and trek on, even though it was pointless. But something stopped you.
Something–a sound–made you freeze.
It was faint. It didn’t sound like the undead, with their discordant groans and disgusting squelches, no… it was far. Getting closer. Closer. The hum and the growl. The purr of a motor. The hiss of pavement.
Your head snapped up, eyes bulging wide as you looked over the horizon to see…. Yes. Yes! Yes, it’s them! The car! A grin pulled at your lips. Halle-fucking-lujah! You felt the anxiety ebb, slowly falling away from your body, as they got closer. The black spec turned into a black blob, then a figure that took shape, and finally you could make out a Vermont license plate and the dirt that stuck to big wheels. Up close, it was a sleek thing, tall and well-built. Midnight black and aside from the splatter on the rubbered wheels, it was polished and clean. The dark paint reflected the bright world around you, turning it into weird warped versions of a faux-paradise. You swallowed at the feel of warmth against your legs, the exhaust from the truck flooding over the smallest sliver of skin around your ankles. Suddenly fearing a changed mind and bad intentions, you stumbled back until your heels pushed against your bag.
Tinted windows stared down at you, menacing and opaque. Not a thing to see behind them, even if you squinted. Nothing moved, nothing jumped, and you watched with bated breath for a window to roll down - until finally, it did.
The driver’s side. It went whirr-ing down, sliding for the shortest period of time in the world until only a shadow met you - and then a flicker of movement. And then-
“Oh my god! Jesus! Okay okay!” You flinched, not even hesitating to raise your hands above your head. You spread your fingers out, desperate to prove your innocence to the stranger in the car. And the gun they were holding, pointing at you, through the gap.
“Were you bit?” A rough voice, muted and deep, broke the atmosphere.
You shook your head.
“Words. Use them.”
“No,” you licked your lips, instantly deciding to turn around in a slow circle. “Not bitten. Not scratched.” You tried to ignore the way your hands shook, even as you shifted all the way back to face the gun’s muzzle.
“Ask where…” a voice, soft and feminine, came from somewhere beyond the driver’s seat. It was saying something, telling something, but faded into a whisper so quiet you couldn’t hear a thing. Your eyes shifted to the dark backseat windows, trying to see something- anything- and found no surprise in the lack of life.
“Any weapons?” The driver seemed to ignore the other person, and instead held the gun steady. You watched it with weary eyes.
“Yes.” And before they could ask, you tugged the knife out of your belt and the gun out of your pants pocket. They were held up in the air, another white flag, and you twitched the hand that held the firearm. “At least three bullets left, but that’s it.”
“And the others?”
You blinked. “Others? What oth-”
“Where is the rest of your ammunition? In the skull of a human or scum?” The stranger spat, and you detected the hints of an accent.
Scum… you’d never heard them referred to as that before. Your last group called them walkers, and some others claimed flesh-eaters. You were tempted to use ‘zombies’, but it felt rather silly. The world took that term too lightly, and the undead were nothing if not a very serious problem. But scum? Like they were beneath humanity and not its current destroyer? You’d ask about it later, you decided, if they deemed you well enough to take in.
“Both,” you breathed honestly, dropping your weapons to your sides with a heavy sigh. “They um- weren’t quite there yet. Got ambushed overnight.”
The gun still didn’t move.
“They don’t ambush. What really happened?”
Hm. They weren’t wrong. Animated corpses didn’t ‘ambush’, but when a herd of them went lurking about, it certainly felt that way. You didn’t think logistics were entirely necessary, but you understood the need for specifics. Trust among men was eviscerated in the face of danger, especially against those once living. You’d seen paranoia before, in others. Humans simply didn’t take each other in anymore… not without some level of severe mistrust. The second thought after seeing the truck drive off was that you probably wouldn’t be accepted anyway - you’d killed without technical reason. Could have just left. Run away.
But you didn’t.
You didn’t want to see them turn into those… creatures.
So what else was there to say? You stared at the gun, willing a click and the shot of a bullet, as you opened your mouth.
“A herd. A lot of them. Just… descended upon the place. Someone might’ve been walking around in the woods or something, and there was just not enough protection,” you paused, licking your lips, “...I was the last one alive. Had to shoot them and go.”
“How long since?”
“Few days, give or take,” you shrugged. The exhaustion only built as you stood there, trying not to sway and collapse in your spot. The truck was still running, hissing hot exhaust; it was the first genuinely warm thing you’d felt in so many days that you wanted to crawl underneath and take a nap. The world, turning to autumn, was growing chilly. There was no chance you could survive winter on your own.
“...Give or take,” you heard the driver scoff and laugh, bitter and mean. You frowned.
Then the window started going up, and you couldn’t help yourself. With a hard thunk, you pushed your shoulder hard against the car, and knocked on the thick glass with the butt of the knife. A look of utter desperation crossed your features, heavy and thick. Urgency, anxiety, fear forced any sense from your mind. There was no chance. There was no survival at all.
“No please- please I can’t be out here alone please- I’m smart and- and I can run fast and be an asset. Please,” you shook your head, searching with worried eyes, “please, please you can’t do this to me-”
Something dark spliced through the corner of your vision, dragging a shadow with it, and you just barely dodged the sudden swing of the truck’s backseat door. It bounced with force and you glanced back at the driver’s window once before stepping back and hastily swinging your bag over your shoulder. The knife and gun were slipped back into your clothing, concealed, and you held yourself strong as the black leathered interior bore itself to the world.
“-we can’t just leave them-”
“-on’t be stupid. They could be a liability-”
“-not stupid. We need more people-”
Voices, at least two, were rushed and tangled in an argument. You didn’t pay much attention to what you could hear, though the growing irritation was hard to ignore. It would be a hassle to be accepted, you knew, but you’d deal. There was no choice. The backseat door was open and there was a figure hustled back against the other window.
“The offer won’t last,” the stranger murmured, somehow louder than the two people in the front seats, and you decided not to take any chances in the world alone.
With a grunt, a push, and a final slam of the door, you found yourself in the truck. Your bag was pushed down by your feet, you tugged your knife out to rest it on your thigh, and you turned to say thank you- but was cut off by a cold blade at your throat. It grazed the soft dirty skin, less than a centimeter away from pushing, and you felt saliva pool in the back of your throat. Swallowing would have pressed you closer, so you fought the urge and only stared.
“Woah-”
“Try anything and you die. I don’t want a peep, not a shuffle. Do I make myself clear?”
The driver’s voice, clearer in such close quarters, was deep and mean. Accent, as you had clocked, from somewhere in the United Kingdom. It held a natural growl, a gruffness from years of smoking, perhaps, and you couldn’t help but sense the intimidation. It wasn’t fake confidence, you noticed, as you looked up and met the cool sharp grey gaze of a woman. Her hair, a deep blonde, was slicked back and short, ruffled slightly by the nape of her neck. A long neck… that led to strong looking shoulders. They were half covered by a jacket, but you could see the strength in the chords of her muscle. A force to be reckoned with. A leader, perhaps. She was pale, with a defined nose and lips twisted into a permanent sneer, and you probably would have thought she had some potential for post-apocalyptic modeling, if it weren’t for the scar that covered one half of her face. Slashed across the left eye, the wound was jagged and rough - it dragged from a point close to the exact middle of her forehead, right to the corner of her jaw. Thicker at parts and thinner at others, it split through a pale eyebrow and seemed to have permanently rendered her blind. The lid didn’t even move when one stormy eye shifted, and you suddenly felt extremely creeped out. Something about her was undeniably cold. Almost reckless, but her hand was so steady with control you knew not to make a move. She’d probably kill without hesitation, dump you back into the road, and drive off with the duffel. There was no choice but to answer, answer quickly, and do as told.
“Yes, clear.” Your head shifted half an inch up and half an inch down, still cautious of the blade.
But she didn’t move.
It was a battle of wills for just a moment, with your hands in your lap, empty and docile. You weren’t looking for a fight, or a staring contest, but the stranger didn’t let up until the figure to your right decided to sit up and speak.
“Ah they do not seem so bad. Look at them. Tired and scared, like sad city mouse,” another woman, one with a Russian accent and a voice a hint too loud, cooed.
Silence followed, persisted, for only a minute- and then the blade was tugged back so quickly you swear it nearly cut the air in two. The driver tsked as she twisted herself around, murmuring as she went.
“More like a rat.”
And then you were thrown to the side with a heavy wheeze as the truck lurched and began moving, working into a turn so you could go back the way they’d come.
You glared at the back of the headrest, not feeling above a little bit of irritation for some poor handling, but eventually grew bored. With some apprehension, your eyes flicked over to the person in the passenger seat. Their profile was strong, feminine, and you noted the unbelievably well-kept head of snowy hair. She looked clean, just like the driver, and a spark of hope welled up in your tired heart. Running water and food existed where they came from, wherever they were camped out, and if you played your cards right, you could finally indulge in some good hygiene. Unless the woman in the passenger seat was stingy with her water… god her skin was so clear, and she seemed to be wearing makeup. No one wore makeup anymore. Not the people in your old group and not the few stragglers you’d stumbled across. It simply wasn’t a necessary luxury anymore, but the woman sitting across from you, back straight and hands in her lap, seemed to think it was of the utmost importance. You wanted to speak, wanted to ask her name, but found yourself turning to your right - and catching the gaze of the person that opened the door for you.
“Anna,” your savior spoke, tilting her head to the left and regarding you with curious eyes. A pale hand, big and long-fingered, shot out and hovered above your lap. You glanced down at it, at the clean skin and the perfect fingernails, and knew that you hit the survivalist jackpot.
With a nod and a quick clasp of her hand, you whispered your name in reply. She nodded before leaning back against the door and crossing her arms; she seemed quite comfortable there, with a rather large gun resting across her lap. Her hair, blonde as well, fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. She saw with deep blue eyes - a contrast to the cold steel of the driver - and didn’t hesitate to flick them over your body in some sort of analytical search. Weapons, you figured, is what she was looking for. And the knife in your lap, which she eyed with some interest.
You wanted to say something, wanted to thank them, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough those days. Asking something of someone was a risk every single time. And you’d asked—begged—them to take you in. You needed to pull your weight, no questions asked.
“Um- thank you for-”
“Shoot them.”
“What?!” You straightened up, eyes going wide as, in your peripherals, you saw Anna’s hand inch toward her gun. Through the rear-view mirror, you caught the way the driver’s brow twitched.
“You heard me. Shoot them.”
“Pha-”
“I said no talking,” the stranger growled, not even bothering to address the woman in the passenger seat. The white-haired woman looked frustrated, her red lips tugging into a frown, as she watched the driver double down on her focus. “Didn’t I say that?”
“But I-,” you wanted to plead your case, wanted to defend yourself, but were cut off.
“I am not going to shoot,” Anna said before you could speak. “Why do you expect her to be quiet hah, Phasma? We just saved her жопa. No need for fighting.”
You glanced at her, picking up on the Native tongue. Fresh off the boat, or perhaps visiting, with the way she said it so easily. Zhopa? Given the context, it wasn’t hard to tell what she meant. Yes, they had just saved your ass. And yes, you wanted to say thank you. Even if that Phasma person wasn’t too keen on a bit of gratitude.
“I hardly think thanking us for a kind deed is worthy of execution, no matter how much silence you require,” the fair-haired woman across from you said smoothly, throwing a slight glare to the woman on her right. And finally, she took that moment to turn around in the seat and make eye contact.
Something that proved to be far more difficult than you thought it would. Good lord, she was gorgeous. Pale skin, deep admiral blue eyes, and lips redder than blood. Not even a scratch on her face, not even a single spec of dirt - as if the apocalypse never happened and there weren’t dead people roaming every street in the world. In fact, she didn’t seem incredibly worried about the predicament the human species found itself in, and was looking at you with kind eyes, a furrowed brow, and a smile that she hoped was welcoming.
“My name is Larissa,” her hand, gloved in white fabric as soft as silk, reached out as an olive branch. You wanted to take it, wanted to feel something so lovely for the first time in a long time and create some sort of bond, but your hands were very dirty. A part of you guessed that Larissa hadn’t put them on earlier that day with the hope to return to camp holding soft fabric smudged with dirt and dried blood, so you only looked down at your palm and then back at hers.
“Oh uh- I don’t wanna get your gloves dirty-”
“Oh,” she glanced down, realizing that she was, in fact, wearing hand-coverings. “Later, then,” a warm smile shone back at you - and you were helpless, instantly offering her a nod in return.
“Finished?” The driver piped up, eyes cold as she stared at you in the rear-view.
As if on cue, Larissa turned back around in her seat, rolling her eyes as she went, and you could only fall quiet. Introductions were over, you were warming up to the easy heat in the car, and Phasma–if you dared address her by name in your head–had a good handle of the wheel. You were safe. For now. And with one last suspended look at the gun on Anna’s lap, you reached over for the seatbelt, tucked yourself in with a click, and leaned back in the seat. It was so suddenly comfortable, such a huge contrast to the shit you’d dealt with recently, that you couldn’t help but close your eyes and revel. Even for a moment. Even for a second.
—
��Get up,” a mean grunt, paired with a quick rush of piercingly cold air, tugged you from the depths of sleep.
Before you could even open your eyes properly, a shiver set itself into your bones. Eager to escape it, and the confines of the car, you jolted and scrambled for your seatbelt. Leaning against the open door, watching you grab your things, was the driver. Phasma? Weird name, but there was no time to dwell - especially not when she was looking at you like that. Eyes sharper than the knife on your lap, holding a polished chrome pistol in one hand, and waiting with some tension for you to hurry up. The duffel was pulled up onto your shoulder, the knife was tucked into your belt, and your hands scratched at the leather as you looked around wildly for your gun.
“We took it. You’ll get it back when you prove you’re not a complete imbecile,” she spat, peering down her nose at you. Disgust danced in her expression, sparking flames of unwanted insecurity, and you felt compelled to look away. Her nostrils were flared, her pink lips curled into something disdainful and mean, and you couldn’t help but watch the way her jaw shifted as she tensed, watching you watch her. The hatred seemed a bit out of place, too strong for normal trust issues, and you briefly wondered if perhaps she’d always been that way - even before the end of civilization. She was clearly a bitch, and not interested in showing you kindness any time soon, so you decided to forgo a response, ignored her glaring, and slipped out of the car without a word.
Before your feet were completely on the ground, and your bag was out of the way, the door slammed closed behind you, quick and sharp. The speed of it nearly clipped your shirt, and you whirled around to face the stranger’s irritation. She seemed to have lost interest in you and side-stepped your figure without another glance. One finger on the trigger, a shit-ton of audacity-filled swagger in her walk, and a back broad and strong. She looked like an outlaw, tall, mean, wearing grey with a belt around her strong hips and a leather jacket over her shoulders. You wanted to throw your gun at her and watch it hit the back of her head, but there was no way in Hell you’d be able to run away faster than she could catch you.
“Come,” you heard Anna speak, interrupting your train of thought as she trudged up to your left. You turned, seeing the way she cocked her head. “I’ll introduce you.” The gun swayed in her grasp as she turned, making little shuffling sounds in the grass.
The grass.
You went to go forward, but stopped. The grass. It was… terribly neat. Very well maintained. Not like apocalypse grass, which was flat and bloodied and mudded and dusted, but like rich person grass. Striking green grass, healthy, it bounced back behind you when you stepped on it. And the air… you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. It was fresh. Pure. Free of the smell of death and free of gunpowder and spraying blood. Just where on Earth were y-
oh.
Oh.
You looked up, finally, and found yourself in a courtyard. On all sides was a wall, sections of it made of brick, others of stone, and the rest of wrought iron fence, bolted hard into the ground; and across the way, piercing the sky, was a manor. Or what looked like a manor. No - what was definitely a manor. Dark, illuminated slightly by the deep blue of the atmosphere and the torches that littered the ground in neat paths, splitting off into cobblestone sections. You swallowed. It was gorgeous. Untouched. A world that seemed to run on and on while the rest of the globe went to shit.
How fucking lucky were you?
“Come! I must say twice?!” Anna called, giving you an exasperated beckon as she started disappearing behind the dark stone brick of the main entrance.
Sparing a quick glance behind you, you found a fortified gate and short stone walls - reinforced and built upon with barbed wire, wood, and sheets of metal. It must have opened up for the truck when you were still asleep, but was very much firmly shut and impenetrable once closed. You wanted to explore it more, wanted to study the mechanism and the layout and come to understand just how they managed to get the place so protected, but you didn’t want to leave Anna waiting. And a low rumble of thunder, far but rolling quick, told you that rain was eager to make her appearance - and you did not want to get caught in that.
After adjusting your bag and patting the knife in your belt for reassurance, you set off after the Russian stranger.
—
“So I am Anna, this you know already,” she pointed to herself, tapped her chest twice, then rolled her hand over to gesture to the clearing ahead.
It was beautiful, outlined against a dark wood. Rocky paths led to a big circle in the middle, and the ruins of stone benches and statues littered the camp. You could definitely see what it used to be - a beautiful place for the elite to sit, to bask, to enjoy the nice air and the wind. But the end of the world had gotten to it, not with the bearings of total destruction, but with the promise of change. A big spruce shelter had been built to the far left, reinforced with four beams and no walls - clearly just meant to keep the rain at bay while they worked outside. Beneath it, there were wooden benches and designated spots for farming equipment, guns, and even a water purifying system from the looks of it. If you assumed that sleeping quarters and showers existed in the castle, then they seemed to be in the best shape anyone could be in.
Even the people, who were busy going about their evening and tending to their duties, while you watched by Anna’s side and felt your excitement grow.
“Phasma was woman driving. Not so kind,” she tsked, giving you a knowing look, and you found yourself unable to ask about the strange name. You figured she wouldn’t have known the answer anyway. Then her hand moved, stealing your attention. “That is Jane,” she pointed to a pale woman sitting on one of the large stone benches.
Her back was turned, but you could see the severity of her expression in the reflection of a hand mirror. She was handsome, free of makeup, with jet-black hair. The strands fell from between her fingertips, spilling like water, as she threaded them into a braid around her head. Her movements were slow, methodic, and you watched, sort of hypnotized, as the long sleeves of her hooded dress stretched across her slim back. Tight along her arms and resting over the black pants covering her thighs, leading down to knee-high leather boots. Fit for an apocalypse, but somehow still chic. You watched her hands for a moment more, and turned slightly to her right when Anna gestured to the woman beside her.
“Miranda. Good girl, but way too skinskie,” she nodded to herself while crossing her arms.
The stranger in question–Miranda–was holding up an antique hand mirror for Jane to look into while doing her hair. They seemed to be the same height, though Miranda’s build was lankier and toned. The sleeves of her white top had to have been torn off, leaving freckled shoulders free to the air, and around one wrist was a black watch. It nearly matched the same leather as her belt, which held an attached holster and a sleeve for a walkie-talkie. Its antenna stood out against the baby blue of her uniform pants; tight by the hips but baggier toward the ankles, tucked into dark laced boots. Her hair was styled into a fair blonde bob, probably recently cut by the sight of such clean edges. It looked unbearably soft kissing the back of her neck.
“She was policewoman. Strong.” Anna commented, gazing at her from your spot by the castle wall.
You nodded absentmindedly, looking over the two strangers and the chess board that sat between them on the bench. Jane had black and Miranda white. The latter seemed to be focusing quite hard on the game, holding a pawn loosely in one hand, as the dark-haired beauty tsked and adjusted the hand mirror that slowly slipped to the side. You watched Miranda jump and offer what you assumed was a sheepish apology, as she tried to multitask. Her small smile was pink and soft, warm and welcoming. A friend, perhaps.
“Very…domestic,” came your soft murmur, sparked by the surprise of such a peaceful camp. In the past group, everyone was too busy trying to sleep, find food, or talk themselves through panic attacks. Maintaining sanity with comfort was not a priority.
“Da. Comfortable,” your companion nodded. “Jan is there, washing.” And you turned, yet again, to find a figure standing in front of a clothesline.
The combat boots made her seem tall, though they were a bit out of place—not really matching the long white sleeved shirt and full red skirt combo. Immaculate and clean, you noticed, though that was to be expected from a woman trying her hardest to get blood out of a white blouse. Her hands were covered by blue rubber gloves, with one clutched around a sponge and the other around the neck of a bottle of white wine vinegar. On the ground by her feet was a large pale jug of hydrogen peroxide and a bucket of what you assumed was water. And the blouse in front of her, held up by wooden clothespins, rippled from the breeze. It seemed to get colder and windier the longer the night went on, probably bringing the rain with it at some point. With any luck, it would clear up the light splotches of pink that covered most of the shirt’s chest up to the collar, but ‘Jan’ didn’t seem too patient and satisfied with that. She got back to her scrubbing a moment later, the strict waves of her blonde hair bumping gently against her neck.
“Jan is very chic. You go to her for fashion advice, no?” Anna tilted her head at you, dragging dark blue eyes over your face. The lawn lamps stabbed into the grass lit everything up with a sweet warm glow, bringing out the flames in her expression as she peered at you curiously. Very handsome, in her own sharp-featured sort of way. You couldn’t help the snort that bubbled up.
“Respectfully, I think fashion is the least of my concerns right now, Anna.”
“Hm. Maybe,” she hummed, shrugged, and gave you a once-over that set your heart racing before turning her attention back to the group.
“Brienne!” You jumped, flinching away as Anna’s loud voice carried into your ear. In the distance, a hulking figure shifted and unfolded, moving to look up at the call. They were sitting on a big pile of cut logs, holding a stone cylindrical sharpener in one hand and a… sword… in the other. Anna waved, talking to you gently as you both watched the figure’s expression change into one of suspicion. She was handsome. Pale, with the lightest blonde lashes and brows, and eyes that sparkled even from that distance. They squinted, drawing frown lines across her face, as she straightened up in her spot. You tried desperately not to stare at her figure, but it was impossible. The deep blue ribbed shirt clung to her torso like a second skin, wrapping tightly around strong biceps and broad shoulders. It was tucked into muddy green cargo pants, offsetting the brightness of the steel that covered the toes of her dark boots. You tilted your head and watched as she glanced between you and Anna before she finally decided to shoot the woman a firm nod. Anna’s lips quirked up into a smile. “She was once soldier. Good woman - she will protect you if you’re in trouble. Saved me many many times.” Her blonde curls swished as she nodded to herself.
That was good to know, you reasoned. Everyone seemed quite strong. Tall, too. And pale. The camp was gorgeous, the people seemed mundane enough, and the company was… well. Your eyes drifted over to Anna’s side profile, a silhouette of soft dips and curves, and you couldn’t hide the attraction you felt even if you tried.
“Larissa, you know too. She is leader, xорошо?” You didn’t really know what ‘harasho’ meant, but the light intonation of her voice had you saying ‘Yeah’ anyway.
Then an arm was winding itself around yours, jostling the bag on your shoulder and the gun slung around Anna’s body. It rested against her back, hitting her thighs, and you were suddenly powerless to the way she steered you further down the gravel path. Toward the right, there was a makeshift driveway; a patch of land ripped up from the grass and replaced with gravel, soil, and rocks. The black truck made an appearance again, probably having been driven up from around the back, and you watched with curious eyes as Phasma busied herself with a few bags and boxes from the trunk. Jesus, she was fit… tall and lethal. A small grunt left her lips when she hauled two boxes up into her arms, never faltering or pausing. Damn. You found yourself getting lost in the sight of her legs in those cargo pants, filling them out, until Anna clicked her tongue.
“Lucifer is strange, but ultimately harmless. Do not worry, they are not naked under the robe.”
Lucifer? Naked under the what?
You were going to take a quick glance around, to find whatever the hell Anna was talking about, but there was no need. Some feet in front of you, lounging on a red and gold velvet chase, was a lithe figure. They were almost glowing in the reflection of the walkway lamps, with the deep crimson of a flowing silk robe offsetting the smooth pale planes of soft skin. One elbow was propped up on the arm of the chair, and you traced the folds of flowing sleeves up to a slim forearm, wrist, and a delicate hand. Slender fingers were curled under the curve of a pale cheek, and you felt your heartbeat speed up at the sight of soft features and crystal eyes. And their hair, curled so perfectly into handsome shining ringlets of spun golden-web… goodness, they were…
“Luxurious,” you murmured, tilting your head as you watched the stranger chat with Larissa. She was standing over them, in front of the chase, and even at that height, you had a feeling that the one laying down was somehow a little bit taller. “Is Lucifer their real name?”
“Da,” Anna nodded, “little strange, no?”
“Yeah,” you gave her an odd look. “Strange as fuck.”
“Don’t get comfortable,” a voice growled from behind you, making you slip away from Anna’s hold and turn around. Phasma was walking past, holding a big bag under each arm. Her muscle was impressive, but dear god she was an asshole. You had to sort out that situation as quick as possible.
“Hey what’s your problem, man?” You spread your hands out at your sides before letting them slap against your thighs. “You picked me up, and while I’m grateful for that, I am, you didn’t have to-”
“Exactly,” she bit out as she whirled around and marched right back to you. Her breath was cool, washing lightly over your face, and she stood so close that your foreheads nearly touched. From that angle, looking up, you could reach out and trace the jagged line of her scar. It was quite attractive actually, even if her eyes narrowed as she watched you look at her. They were cold. Not an ounce of care.
“Don’t. Get. Comfortable.” Her lips twitched, carrying a silent threat.
“Okay,” Larissa’s voice, sing-songy and weary, cut into the conversation. “Why don’t we all take a moment to calm down, hm?” Her smile was blinding as she turned to you. One gloved hand hovered above Phasma’s right shoulder, but was instantly shrugged off the second it made contact. Her sneer didn’t fade even when she stepped back, eyes still flaming with anger. Larissa cleared her throat. “Y/n, you’re new here. Why don’t you and I have a little chat?”
Her expression, although kind, hid a sharpness that you didn’t think was wise to fuck around with. If Larissa was the leader, according to Anna, then it was her you had to charm. You didn’t really know why she was the top dog, especially because some of the other group members seemed more… abrasive… but clearly something about her was good enough to be the one in charge. And pissing her off, messing around with her people, was a one-way ticket to possibly turning into those fuckers lurking in the woods. So you didn’t really have a choice - and you didn’t really want one. No matter what, you’d stay. You’d be of some help. You’d stay on the soft grass, smelling the clean air. You’d become best friends with Larissa, the group would learn to like you, and you’d try not to combust when any of them looked your way.
Easier said than done though, of course. Especially when Larissa’s smile knocked down all of your reservations at once, in one big swing, and coaxed an obedient nod from your body.
“Okay. Yes. Sure.”
“Perfect,” Larissa’s grin, somehow, grew even wider.
“It’s getting late,” were Phasma’s parting words before she turned away and headed off toward two big wooden double doors.
You watched her strut without much thought, and found yourself on the other end of a staring Larissa. Her eyes were utterly striking in the evening light, and the outline of her face… a sight to be seen for a person as weary as you.
“So… is your group considered women only?” You murmured, peering up at her through your eyelashes.
Red lips twitched.
“Not intentionally. Though we have had the discussion before,” she contemplated her next words carefully, looking all over your face before resuming, “and we think it’s best if it’s just women. And Lucifer.”
“And Lucifer?” You still can’t get over that being their real name. Probably just picked out in a moment of edginess when they were a teen. Lucifer did sound cool, sort of bully-worthy. Like they were emo kid once upon a time.
“Lucifer is what many would refer to as non-binary. Not a man and not a woman. I hope that won’t be a problem?” Something flashed behind her eyes. Not a threat, but a warning. You couldn’t help but smile.
“Not at all. They and I are… one and the same,” you shrugged and adjusted the bag on your shoulder.
“How lucky I must be…,” someone purred from over your shoulder.
You tensed up, surprised by the closeness, and felt yourself grow a little weak at the tone. Like spiced honey, their voice was intense and smooth. You wanted to lap it up.
“Ah right on time for a proper introduction,” Larissa, ever the most efficient woman from what you could tell so far, found herself a golden opportunity. One hand shot out and gestured over to you, then to the person slinking around to your right. “Y/n this is Lucifer, one of the strongest members of our group. Lucifer and I make most of the big decisions, with the necessary input from everyone else. And Lucifer,” Larissa’s grin relaxed into a smile, “this is Y/n. Depending on our discussion of the rules, they may become a familiar face, so I suggest you play nice.”
You found that you couldn’t look to the side without short-circuiting. There was something.. something… about their aura that had you wanting to shy away and cower. It wasn’t the explosive intensity of Phasma or the consuming strangeness of Anna, or even the gentle but strong hand of Larissa… but instead a subtle sort of consumption. Utterly intriguing and fascinating - like they were put on the Earth to confuse humans. You didn’t even look at them and you could feel that. Didn’t even know them and you could feel that. Standing so close. So much body heat.
“It’s a pleasure,” they murmured, turning to you fully.
You swallowed, braced yourself, and looked up to your right.
Sweet holy Jesus. They were even more handsome up close. Just absolutely soft and glorious. And carrying the faint scent of… firewood? You cleared your throat.
“Um yeah- likewise. Hi.”
A flash of black, followed by measured footsteps in the grass, had all three of you shifting to see Jane walking past. Miranda was not too far behind, taking her time to cross the yard.
“Dinner is being prepared. Show face in the next 20 minutes or go to bed hungry.” Jane didn’t even spare you a glance before she disappeared behind the same doors Phasma had gone through.
“Thank you, Jane,” Larissa managed to call just before they closed behind her with a dull bang.
“Three moves…,” Miranda was muttering, holding the box for the chess set in one hand. “She beat me in three moves.”
“Oh it’s not hard. I would’ve beaten you in two,” another voice entered the fray, polite but amused. Jan, you recognized, as she sidled up between you and Larissa with a small smile on her deep red lips.
Miranda scoffed and turned to look at Anna, only to find that she was gone. One glance behind you revealed that she’d wandered over to Brienne, probably prompting her to go inside for dinner. You hummed, hiding the amusement of friendly banter. It had been so long since you felt even the smallest sense of normalcy. If they were so comfortable with each other, then it must have been a bit since they were all alone out in the world. You’d probably ask Larissa about that later - once everything was said and done.
“I would’ve beaten you in one,” Lucifer smirked as they pulled away and went walking inside. Had they been barefoot the entire time?
“That’s not even possible!” Miranda yelled, but the door was already shut. “...Is it?” She turned to Larissa, then to you, then back to Larissa.
“I don’t think so, Miranda,” Larissa smiled before looking at you. “Any chance you’re good at chess?”
Dear lord, having two sets of beautiful blue eyes on you was nerve-wracking, but you ignored the flush building up on your cheeks and nodded.
“Um yeah- it’s possible to beat someone in two moves. But it’s only black, I think.” You gave Miranda an apologetic smile and a shrug as she pouted.
“You will beat her next time Miranda,” Anna returned with Brienne in her wake. The sword she was sharpening earlier was still in her hands. “She cannot win forever.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brienne cut in, her voice strong and deep. Her mouth was pulled into a light frown, and you noticed the scar that cut through the upper lip on the right. From the time before, you suspected. Otherwise she’d be turned. “She beat me and Phasma one after the other.”
Miranda sighed, tsking beneath her breath.
“Then there’s no hope…” Goodness, she looked like a sad puppy.
“Why not?” It slipped out of your mouth before you could grab it.
And of course, all of the attention then dragged itself over to you. Five sets of sea-blue eyes, all gorgeous in the glow of the evening lamps, traced lines over your tired body. In comparison to them, you looked a sight. Obviously having been picked up from the side of the road, unclean and awkward, somewhat detached from society. In your bag? Not enough clothing and not enough supplies. In your belt, peeking out from beneath your shirt? A knife, dirty and growing dull. And in your eyes? Lurking sadness and horror - the same which probably lived in the women that were observing you.
Larissa, thank goodness, finally broke the lull of silence.
“Brienne and Phasma were in the military,” she said gently.
“Oh. That makes sense.” And it did - Jane must have been an intellectual force if she beat people that used to be in the military before the world ended. Though that made you wonder… “What branch?” You turned to Brienne, not really surprised that you had to look up to meet her eyes. It seemed you’d been adopted into a camp of skyscrapers. Though the sharpness of her eyes had you swallowing. “I mean- if you don’t mind me asking.”
She seemed to consider it, sizing you up, before saying, rather shortly, “SAS. Then Delta Force.”
You couldn’t hide the way your eyes widened.
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed,” Larissa hummed. “But I think now would be a good time to head in, wouldn’t you say?” She spared her smile for everyone, meeting the gaze of each woman, before finally looking at you and raising her eyebrow.
It wasn’t really up to you, so you just shrugged and waited for Anna to say ‘Da, da, xорошо’ before heading in. Brienne followed after her, then Miranda, who was studying the back of the chess box, and Larissa, who started taking off her gloves. Jan, meanwhile, stayed where she was and kept her eyes on you. They were curious and deep, never-ending, and lined with mascara and eyeliner. Mascara and eyeliner that… well it suited her, but goodness it was certainly intense. Dark and shadowed, but beautiful nevertheless. You couldn’t look away.
“Jan Stevens,” she breathed and gave you her hand, elegant and admittedly quite charming. Her nails were painted a deep cherry red. Utterly flawless.
At the sight of it, you weren’t entirely sure what to do. Your palms were still dirty, and sort of calloused, and you didn’t want to… ruin her. So you hesitated, stared at it, looked back up at her, and found her kind smile to be unwavering.
“Go on,” Jan finally whispered, giving her hand a pointed look, and you fell prey in an instant.
Quickly, you shot out to gently cup her hand into your own, and gave it a gentle shake. You felt strangely compelled to bring it up to your lips, but you weren’t sure that meeting a stranger in an apocalypse really called for such formalities. Even though you yearned to feel her skin beneath your mouth. It wasn’t proper; though you did think that Jan’s expression fell just a little bit. Like she was excited. Like she wanted you to kiss her hand.
“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she purred, looking you up and down, before turning toward the door. “Come quickly now. If we’re late, Jane will send us off to bed without dinner. And we wouldn’t want that.”
It probably would have been wise to consider and contemplate the fact that you were in a stranger’s camp, with a stranger’s group… but the saucy little wink that Jan threw over her shoulder sent a deep blush crawling up your cheeks. And just like that, without fail, you were one of the flesh-eaters… caught in the pretty paws of eight different beasts.
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
Please let me know if my characterization is okay and if you'd like to see more. Be safe, darlings. - Rip x
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
Far too many names to tag. Find it as you come.
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
#rippersz#fanfictionwriter#fanfic#fanfiction#wlw fanfic#gwendoline christie#gwendoline christie characters#larissa weems#captain phasma#jan stevens#lucifer morningstar the sandman#brienne of tarth#jane murdstone#anna welcome to marwen#miranda hilmarson#x reader fanfic#x reader fic#x reader#larissa weems x reader#phasma x reader#jan stevens x reader#y/n#x y/n#jane murdstone x reader#anna x reader#miranda hilmarson x reader#brienne of tarth x reader#lucifer morningstar sandman x reader#lucifer morningstar sandman#got brienne
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𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨, 𝐒𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐦
𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: chrollo + prompt 28 "feels good, doesn't it? isn't it so much better when you listen?"
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you've resentfully avoided chrollo's attempts at affection ever since he took you away. chrollo doesn't seem to think that you have any valid reason to act this way and devises a plan to show you why.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: nsfw, coercion, non-con touching, mentions of past kidnapping, lots o manipulation. all sexual nsfw will be below the cut.
Chrollo’s constant attempts at sharing affection with you were becoming infuriating, to say the absolute least. For such an intelligent man, you were shocked that he didn’t seem to have enough intuition to notice that what he was doing bothered you, or to see how his thought process was highly incorrect when he assumed that everything was normal between you two following your kidnapping. It was as if you were the one who was crazy, so mad for thinking that a dent had been put in your relationship by him taking you away. The look of mild confusion he would give when you ducked out of a hug or turned your head when he would try to kiss you; his lips pressing into your cheek instead. These happenings were indeed maddening, but for the right reason. Your bitterness alone towards Chrollo was enough to keep you grounded, not to let yourself be manipulated into thinking that you were the one who was acting out of line.
The progression of your indignation reaching its boiling point was slow, initially by your choice, though eventually, your efforts would prove futile the longer that you tried. Chrollo was, above all else, as calm and collected as they came. The times when you would react more explosively than usual, in ways like slamming your bedroom door or pushing him away with more force than what could be deemed acceptable by any regular relationship’s standard, he would barely respond. His expression would be as meek as ever despite the obvious, unspoken assertion that he had over you; like he was just letting you get your tantrum out of your system so things could go back to normal sooner rather than later. Nothing can be normal ever again, you would always think to yourself.
His utter repose in these situations was the most discouraging part of it all. If you were showing him your worst, throwing fits when he would try doing something as harmless as brushing his knuckles across your cheek, and he would not spare you a second glance when you denied him in such a childish way… were you doomed? His being so unbothered should have been impossible, and if anything, it bothered you. How could such behaviour not displease him so much that he would be driven to let you go just so you would be out of his hair?
Your resentment boiled over on one particular day, which ended regretfully.
All you could hear him say this morning in your immediate post-sleep fog was that he would be out for most of the day, and would be coming home much later than usual. His typical day already had him arriving home rather late into the night, so the thought of him coming back so much later to the point of you possibly being asleep made you nervous for some reason–an odd gut feeling, like you shouldn’t leave yourself so vulnerable while alone in the den of a predator; however, it had been a while since you had experienced the peace of being home alone. You were still incredibly anxious about when his inevitable return would be, but you put forth your best effort to push that aside and enjoy your temporary solitude while it lasted.
Your morning started with reluctantly hauling yourself out of bed and putting on your robe after holding it open in front of the heater–the air had such a cold bite to it today. Tucking your frigid fingertips into your pockets, your body shivered as it adjusted to the newfound warmth, your cold feet carrying you downstairs to start brewing a hot drink. As you poured the water, setting it to boil and watching in wait, you began to zone out.
Being able to stand here right now could be considered a minor miracle, as your first month in Chrollo’s clutches kept you confined to the bedroom and attached bathroom. He assured you that he trusted you, but he wanted to introduce you to your new home slowly and would have to wait and dictate when a good time for that could be. Considering your frequent fits, you aren’t exactly sure what you had done differently on the day that he decided it was a good time, but it was the one thing that you were grateful to him for. Bitterness always crept back in when you wondered why he restricted your access to the home in the first place if he claimed to trust you, but if it was because he suspected that you would try to escape, he was absolutely right.
There was one day during this time when you were sitting under a blanket on the couch, watching Chrollo adjust his coat as he informed you that he would be leaving you alone for a couple of hours, before rushing out to whatever job his absence required. After you heard him lock the front door, you immediately hopped up and ran to one of the windows in the living room to see if you could get it open. You were unsurprised to find that it wouldn’t budge, not even when you used the force of your entire body weight to try prying it out of its frame. The situation was the same for every window on the ground floor, and it wasn’t until you stood in front of the front door itself that you heard a sudden voice from behind you, coming from inside the house.
“This has certainly disrupted your progress quite a bit. How disappointing, I thought you were moving along rather well.”
You whipped around to see Chrollo standing a few feet away, his expression almost heartbroken at the sight of your hand reaching towards the doorknob. When did he come back inside?! You heard nothing aside from the sounds of your shuffling around the house. It hadn’t even been that long either, perhaps fifteen minutes? Had he left at all? Regardless, he was not lying when he said this disrupted your progress. You were condemned back to your bedroom for another week, as a punishment. Your dread of being sent back to that essential jail cell had you apologizing profusely, the biggest change in your behaviour since this all had happened. The sympathy in his eyes came across as so false while he told you that he was sorry to have to do this, but you brought it upon yourself.
The bubbly, popping sound of the water reaching its boil brought you back from your stupor, quickly shutting off the burner and pouring yourself a mug. As you plodded over to the couch, you began to wonder about what you could do today. From the way Chrollo made it sound, the house was yours all day long. You already knew that spending time trying to escape would not work, your last punishment not only taught you your lesson but also that he would never let any exits be accessible to you under any circumstance. No matter, you could just use your time today to sit and contemplate other ways to act out against Chrollo that would get him fed up with you, maybe to the point where he would drag you to the door and just kick you out. That fantasy made you chuckle; how hopeful you were. If my temper has proven useless this far in, what more can I do?
As you sipped on your drink, content with the heat of it pleasantly tickling your insides and warming out the rest of your body, you found yourself feeling comfortably drowsy. You recalled it being quite early when Chrollo left, and your excitement to enjoy your seclusion had you departing from your bed much earlier than normal, to make use of the day you were given. That previous thought of anxiety about falling asleep without Chrollo being here reinstated itself in your mind, but it was still early after all. A nap couldn’t hurt. You slouched down into the couch, taking one more sip of your beverage before placing it aside and curling in on yourself, resting your weary eyes for what would hopefully not be too long; just enough to feel relaxed for your special, lonely day.
It was a sensation that woke you up, and given how strained your eyes still felt when you tried squinting them open, you could not have been asleep for very long at all. Your eyes fell back shut as you went to raise your fingertips and massage your lids, but when you wanted to move your hands from where they had been tucked into your chest, you couldn’t; they were restrained. Not by something as gruff as handcuffs, or implicative as some tie or silk ribbon, but by another pair of hands, a pair which you recognized much too soon.
“I came back to get something that I forgot to bring with me. You looked so endearing sleeping here, I couldn’t stop myself by the time I was already at your side.”
His voice came from over your shoulder, and you registered a moment too late that Chrollo was back home, cuddling you from behind with your hands intertwined.
You hadn’t been this close to him since before your captivity, and it seemed to you then that this entire day was a setup to make this happen. He was just waiting for the perfect time to take advantage of you, of your comfort, to pounce. He must have been fed up with your resistance by now, especially since you tried moving your hands again but he wasn’t allowing that to happen, his grip iron. The idea of him going out of his way to do all of this was so upsetting to you, you truly felt excited to live today differently than every other mundane one you had here. The thought of it being a trap brought tears to your eyes, a reaction you had no control over once the first tear fell into your hair.
“Why would you do this?” your voice was whiny, words thick as you swallowed down the sudden lump in your throat. With your hands restricted, you opted to rub your cheek dry against the accent pillow you had been resting on. You didn’t receive a reply at first, you could only feel Chrollo shifting around before he appeared in your peripheral, hovering over your side.
“Why are you crying?” he sounded genuinely curious, his knuckles so soft as they brushed away your tears. You were too exhausted at this point to resist his touch; your will crumbled once you discerned that you wandered right into his scheme, so naively.
Chrollo watched you with solace-filled eyes and carried the utmost patience as he caressed you, but you couldn’t respond yet, any attempt at speech only turning into a broken whimper as you internally scolded yourself. He frowned at the small sounds you made, moving to cup your cheeks so you’d only be able to look at him. His thumbs swiped over your cheekbones, and he looked like he was about to say something more, but you cut him off.
“I can’t believe you would trick me again.” A harsher sob wracked your body as your emotions came crashing down, overtaking your actions. Your hands found his, latching onto his wrists with an abrasive dig of your nails as if to pry him off. “Why can’t you just leave me be, just leave me alone for one day?!”
You squeezed him harder, fingernails almost puncturing his skin, but no difference was made. He didn’t even flinch, his sorrowful gaze was unwavering as you broke down. Your eyes blinked shut, batting away the never-ending stream of tears that flowed out of them.
What an opportune thief Chrollo was. Amid your emotional haze, you barely registered the newfound warmth on your lips; that being his own. The first time he was able to kiss you, without you having enough clarity to move away.
Everything was calculated.
With being so flustered and exasperated by everything, you found yourself melting into the intimacy. Your grip on him relented, letting gravity control your hands as they fell to rest beside your head. Chrollo’s head tilted to deepen the kiss, sinking you further into the couch as his fingers slid to your jaw to keep you in place. The way his body caged you down in this suffocation almost felt like a representation of how caged off he kept you from the rest of the world. Over a month of captivity, with no rescuers in sight. You couldn’t know if anyone had even tried, Chrollo made past implications about “taking care of” anyone who would try to come between you two, so you would not dare to ask to spare yourself the potentially gruesome details. Understanding his line of work, you knew better.
Even if you could find some form of escape despite the lack of active search-and-rescuers, running away by your merit, where would you go? You could not go back to your own home, nor could you endanger the lives of anyone close to you. To keep living, you would be left with no choice but to run right back into Chrollo’s arms. Those same arms that began to wander now, slithering off of your face and to the south of your body, his hands finding your breasts first and giving them an ample squeeze.
The premonition of further invasion brought some brief lucidity to your mind in the form of a reactive fright, breath hitching and muscles tensing as you squirmed around in an attempt to drive him off of you. You gave this your best effort considering your compromised position, though it didn’t make much of a difference at all. That didn’t mean it went unnoticed, it worked to some extent when Chrollo broke the kiss, but his hands remained in their place.
“No more of that, Y/N. You’ve moved past this behaviour, moving so well. Don’t revert that progress again, now.”
As if it should’ve just been that simple for you to agree with, his lips resumed their actions on you with an attachment to your neck, his tongue darting out after he kissed the centre, before sliding the tip of it down to your clavicle. His fingers crept up to the collar of your shirt, tugging it down as he nipped at your bone. When your head reeled back in an attempt to distance yourself, you were sure that from Chrollo’s perspective, it looked like a pleasurable reaction that only encouraged him further. You guessed right, as he moved to start unbuttoning your nightgown. Your response came too late when you tried to pull his hands away, he was moving too fast.
You heard a tear as he yanked the material down, ripping it open. You frowned at the possibility of one of your favourite pyjamas being ruined, that frown deepening even further when you recalled your lack of a bra and what Chrollo could see right now. This brought you to panic and you tried to move away, but his body shifted further down so he could wrap his mouth around the tip of your breast, preventing your movement and making your chest churn. He looked into your eyes as his tongue flattened against your nipple, though when he saw that you were looking away he pointed his tongue and pushed the end of it right onto your bud, swirling over the tip and sending a sensitive tremor throughout your body. A helpless hum escaped you at the feeling, a mistake that Chrollo immediately planned to exploit. His lips sucked your nipple into his mouth, before letting it pop out as he lifted his head off of you. The cold air blowing over your newly bedewed skin made you shiver (or it could have been induced by your dread. With the whirlwind of emotions you were experiencing, how were you to tell?). A light, knowing smirk played on his lips.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Isn’t it so much better when you listen?”
As one of his hands traced down your side, moving under your gown and stopping his palm over your panties, his fingertips landed above your clit and pressed in. You writhed, trying to shake your head in defiance to what he had just boldly asked you, but when he circled his fingers you were rendered immobile. His hand remained in its place, the extra friction created by your underwear pleasing you deliciously. Holding back any sound almost became painful, it was hard to resist pleasure when you had been denying him for such a long time, your body being neglected for so many weeks. Your reaction was out of your control, yet you didn’t wish for him to stop.
He could tell you were settling into the feeling, your hips twisting and turning to follow his movements and meet the pace and pressure that he set, your chest rising and falling as your throat ached from forcing your moans back down.
It wasn’t until you felt Chrollo’s tongue dampen your panties as it replaced his fingers that a keening sound was forced out of you; the change in touch felt so different now, so good. The increased wetness of his saliva and your growing arousal let him stroke along your clit as if there were no barrier at all, making your legs tremble. Before you could even try to stop it, one of your hands plunged down to grab at his hair, pulling on his roots which simultaneously pulled a groan from his throat. That vibration had your back arching, you were barely coherent now as you could focus on nothing aside from enticing the orgasm that began to stir within you, being further encouraged when Chrollo finally tugged your panties aside and splayed his tongue over your clit again, bare.
You let out a lewd gasp, your eyes watering for a second time today but now for such a better reason. That immediate skin-to-skin contact was divine, causing the buildup of your peak to be strengthened and amplified immensely, especially after being untouched for so much time. Untouched by this same man, who learned about all of your weak spots the very first time you slept together, and knew exactly how to touch them again later to get you melted and desperate beneath him.
With that in mind, you always knew this would happen again. He never made any second attempts to touch you when you would push him away before, an obvious ploy to lull you into a false idea of his “respect” for your boundaries. Chrollo was, above all else, as calm and collected as they came. He had to remain composed to maintain his patience and seek out the right time to strike, after all.
He nibbled your clit suddenly, and that was your end. Your thighs clenched around his head, his name husky on your lips and releasing in a higher pitch as you came hard, fingers wrenching against his scalp. Your body shook, breaths heavy and interrupted by mewls as Chrollo continued swirling his tongue, one of his hands sneaking down to prod his fingertips into your pussy, riding your orgasm out even better with the added touch.
Once your pleasure crests to its fullest, the fall back down to reality hits you hard. Chrollo’s movements had slowed but not completely stopped, and when the delectation steadily turned into overstimulation, you remembered the vile course of actions that he took to get you here. You bleated in protest, unable to form the words that could demand him to stop as your hands braced the couch, helping you tug yourself away from him. His arms quickly hooked around your thighs to keep you right where he wanted you, hauling you back down. He gave a final sloppy kiss to your pussy, his lips glimmering wet as he looked up at you. The sight of him so dreamy between your thighs sent something down your core that you hated.
“I don’t like having to repeat myself with you, Y/N. You know better now, I shouldn’t have to repeat myself with a jewel so bright. Lay back down, let me please you.” His hands were firm and kept your hips flat, leaving you stationary.
“I know you weren’t ready until today, but allow me to make up for all of the lost time.” He kissed your clit again, stunning you further as the pain of overstimulation had long since faded, your body welcoming pleasure again, craving it. You would have never been ready, not until today or any other day. But you knew it would happen, Chrollo always got his way. A thief so unforgiving would stop at nothing. “As long as you continue to listen, I will give you everything you desire.”
© meyousing 2023. do not share/export my work on to any other platforms. do not translate my work.
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Month 15 - Newleaf
Battle With Razor Pt 7
Scorchplume couldn’t believe what she was doing. The further into the woods they went, the louder the sounds of yowling, fighting cats grew. It was overwhelming. It made her want to crawl into a hole and close her eyes until everything was over. But Goldenstar needed her. She found it hard to believe that Oddstripe had been given a mystical vision of doom but, if there was anything she could believe, it was that Goldenstar was in danger.
A grey shape moved in her peripheral vision and Scorch sucked in a sharp, fearful breath. Oddstripe twisted to follow her gaze and his shoulders loosened in relief.
“Stormwhisper!” he cried around the yarrow in his mouth.
“Oddstripe?” The shape that wasn’t Razor turned to face them with a surprised expression.
“Oddstripe?” Sagetooth’s voice echoed his question cantankerously. The healer stomped out from behind a tree to glare at them. When she spotted Scorch, her expression flattened to something close to resignation. “And Scorchplume. What in the Dark Forest are you doing here?” The other healers craned their necks to see what the fuss was about.
“I had a vision!” Oddstripe explained, moving closer. “Have any of you seen Goldenstar? Scorchplume needs to get to her right away.”
“No,” Sagetooth shook her head, “She’s probably in the thickest of the fighting.” Scorch swallowed thickly and tried to keep her eyes from darting around at every noise.
“Then that’s where we have to go,” Oddstripe said reluctantly.
“You’ll get yourself killed,” Sagetooth snapped.
“She’s right,” said Stormwhisper, “it’s too dangerous.”
“This was stupid,” Scorch huffed, tail twitching. “I shouldn’t even be here.”
“No, no!” Oddstripe’s ears pressed back against his skull. “My vision was very clear! If Scorchplume doesn’t get to Goldenstar, she’ll die!”
“She has nine lives,” Sagetooth said. “She’s prepared to lose one of them to kill Razor.” Scorch grit her teeth and held her tongue. That was part of the problem!
Oddstripe shook his head in distress. “No, I mean she’ll die die! Like completely dead!”
“That’s ridiculous,” huffed Sagetooth. “That only happens if a cat gets sick or drowns, things that can’t be healed immediately.”
“You all sound insane,” Scorch hissed. “She’s probably already dead.” She almost wished that were true. In that case, she would have something final to hold onto instead of floating unmoored in this unbearable uncertainty.
Sagetooth growled to herself, tail lashing. “Hush, kit. Don’t speak on things you know nothing about.”
“Stormwhisper!” a voice called from the other side of the small clearing. “It’s Darkmoon!” Dawnbird came dashing in as Coyotechaser and Sparrowpaw trailed behind with a bloody Darkmoon limping between them.
“Bring him over here!” Stormwhisper said, attention completely diverted. “Blazingbrush, grab the poppy seeds!”
“On it!”
“He’s having trouble breathing,” Sparrowpaw said, sparing only a brief glance their way.
Sagetooth chewed her lip for a second and then said, “Oddstripe, if you’re completely sure, you should go looking. StarClan will guide you.”
“Alright,” nodded Oddstripe. He stepped up beside Scorchplume and looked towards the battlefield, tail arched behind him.
“This is crazy,” Scorchplume said. “You know this is crazy, right?”
“I know,” Oddstripe fretted, looking at his son who was already darting back towards the battle. “I can’t do nothing though.” He stepped forward, then stopped all of a sudden, eyes wide. “Do you see that?”
Scorch leaned in to follow his gaze. “What? I don’t see anything.”
“Look!” he said breathily, pointing with his muzzle. “See how the sun is shining through those trees?” Scorch looked again. The trees seemed completely normal, the dawn light filtering in between the leaves. There was a small trail of stronger light where the branches let in more of the sun’s rays. It didn’t seem particularly special to her mind.
“So?” she asked.
“It’s leading perfectly through the trees,” Oddstripe said, already bounding towards it. “We have to follow it!”
“What?!” Scorch bristled. “But it’s nowhere near the battle!”
“Come on!” was all he said, shouting over his shoulder.
Scorch let out a frustrated whine, claws kneading the damp earth in frustration. This was insane! She was following a crazy person into the woods for no reason! Still, she glanced around and decided she didn’t want to stay here and she knew she wouldn’t have the stomach to just go back, so she dashed to catch up with him. She hoped that Goldenstar actually needed her help or else she was going to feel so stupid after this.
She followed Oddstripe through the trees for a while as he raced along the thin line of sunlight that cut a path between the trees. Scorch had to admit, it was strange how continuous the line was, how it was never blocked by shrubbery and it never led them up the side of a tree. She shrugged it off as a freaky coincidence. The sound of fighting faded behind them, allowing her nerves to settle just a bit.
Then, suddenly, the playful sound of a bell rattling with effort.
“Wait, shh!” she hissed softly. “Stop!”
Oddstripe did so, ears perked attentively. “What is that?”
“A collar bell,” she whispered, “It’s one of the Exalted. What are they doing all the way out here?”
“Let’s go look,” Oddstripe said, creeping closer.
“W- Don’t-!” Scorch bristled indignantly. Her protests didn’t slow him and with another frustrated kneading, she slank after him.
Ahead of them was a small clearing in which a large tabby tom stood hunched over something, shaking it in his jaws. Scorch’s heart leapt into her throat at the sight of Razor. What was he doing out here?! She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart was beating so fast she thought her body might explode.
“Oh, Stars,” Oddstripe whispered beside her, his voice full of horror.
At the sound, Razor turned to face them, eyes searching the underbrush, and Scorch gasped. The thing in his jaws was Goldenstar, her body limp and bloody, eyes gazing vacantly as her head lolled in their direction. Razor dropped the body and it hit the ground with a wet thump.
“Who’s out there?” he asked, teeth bared. Scorch took a step back. Oddstripe started to move forward.
“What are you doing?!” Scorch said in a whisper so high it was almost a squeak.
“I have to help her,” Oddstripe said, shifting his posture lower as if about to sprint.
“She’s dead!” Scorch hissed. “There’s no helping her now!”
“There you are,” Razor’s voice sent a chill down her spine. The way his eyes swept over the shrub told her he couldn’t see them yet but he stepped over Goldenstar’s body and prowled in their direction.
Scorchplume had no idea what possessed her to step forward in that moment. She should have run. She should have left Oddstripe to his foolishness and started heading for the hills. Instead, she inexplicably walked straight into the fire and she had no idea why.
When Razor saw her, his furious snarl softened in surprise. “Gingersnap.” He said.
Scorchplume swallowed dryly. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. Oddstripe was right behind her somewhere, sure to be discovered. Carefully, she sidestepped Razor to get a better look at the corpse, hoping to lead his attention away from the hidden healer.
“Razor, what have you done?” she asked hoarsely. She stared past the body and let her vision fog, unable to actually look at the grisly details marring the pelt of the cat she had been sharing a nest with for the last few weeks.
“Don’t be like that,” Razor frowned, closing distance with her. He licked the blood from his muzzle and buried his nose in the fur at the back of her neck. She stiffened under his touch, stomach turning queasily. It felt like he had her insides in a vice and was squeezing them as hard as he could.
“Forget about the savage, Gingersnap. She’s gone now.”
Scorch inhaled shakily. “Razor, please…”
“What?” he asked, a hint of annoyance replacing the sickly sweet tone he had been using. “Please what, little bird?”
“Please, just…” She didn’t know where she was going with this. “Just let me go.”
Razor’s posture shifted dangerously. “Let you go?” he breathed. “Careful, Gingersnap. You almost sound like you don’t want to go back with me.”
“I don’t,” she sobbed, backing away. “I never did!”
“That’s a lie,” he shouted, “words planted in your head by that filthy wild cat!” Scorch, hunched down against the ground, spared one glance past him at Goldenstar’s body. Oddstripe was crouched over her, rubbing chewed up yarrow over her gaping wounds in a futile display of optimism. Razor’s paw shot out and pushed her chin upwards.
“Don’t look at her!” he snapped. “She’s gone now. Look at me.”
“Stop it!” she cried, pushing him away.
“No,” he boomed, shoving her roughly back, “you need to learn! I am the only one who has ever cared about you! I gave you everything you wanted, practically crawled over glass to suit your whims, and all the while you snuck around behind my back! Why?!”
“Don’t touch me!” Scorch screamed, unable to think another thought. She reared up on her toes in an attempt to feel less like a cowering child.
“You will never be satisfied!” Razor laughed bitterly. “You’re a leech, Gingersnap, all you do is feed off other people but it will never be enough for you! You will always be empty and miserable and incomplete!” Scorch pressed her ears back against her head to block out the words. He was just trying to get into her head, she couldn’t listen to him.
Razor leaned down and lowered his voice to something pleading and gentle. “Why can’t you just let me love you?” Scorch struck out with her claws and they gouged into the soft flesh of his eye. Razor snarled in pain and recoiled, blinking away the blood now pouring down the right side of his face.
“You little bitch!” he hissed and swiped out with his own claws. Her body moved instinctively, ducking backwards on muscle memory, and the strike grazed her whiskers. Her heart was pounding. Mouth dry, she lunged and swiped at him like Goldenstar had taught her only to be slammed onto her back by Razor’s massive paws.
“You’ll pay for that,” he growled, blood dripping from his face onto hers. She squirmed helplessly. Why had she done this? For months she had avoided this exact course of action knowing it would end in her death but something about these Clan cats had sabotaged the defenses she had been building all her life and introduced a fatal flaw. She wondered if an apology would do anything at this point.
“There!” she heard Russetfrond shout from a distance. Razor turned his head and bared his teeth in a snarl. With a screech, Orangestar leapt onto Razor’s back in a blur of ginger fur, and he stumbled away to try and throw her off. Scorchplume gasped for breath and scrambled to her feet, cheeks drenched in tears.
“Are you alright?” Russetfrond asked, appearing at her side.
“I don’t know,” she swallowed. The deputy looked her up and down and seemed to conclude that she was fine. He turned his attention back to the battle and sprang off to join Orangestar.
Scorchplume crouched down against the earth and fell apart.
#clan gen#clangen#warrior cats#warriors#warrior cats oc#warriors oc#clangen oc#clan gen oc#clangenrising#newleaf#battle with razor#Scorchplume#Oddstripe#Stormwhisper#Sagetooth#Goldenstar#Razor#Orangestar#Russetfrond#tw graphic injury#Sparrowsway
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Angel Reader - Second Preview
The only warning is for sadness :)
“GUILTY!” All of the courtroom angles shouted in unison.
"SERA, PLEASE DON'T DO THIS!" you cried out, your arms and body being restrained by archangels.
Lucifer had succeeded, he had given the fruit of knowledge to Eve. But everything had shattered. Her acceptance of free will had caused darkness to enter the world. Evil now had free reign on Earth. And the ones responsible were about to face the consequences. Lucifer and Lilith were surround by Heaven’s forces in the courtroom, spears encircling them, backed into a corner with no hope of fleeing.
"Keep her away," Sera ordered the guards from her pedestal, refusing to turn in your direction. "Lucifer. Lilith. Your reckless act of providing free will to humans has caused creation's downfall. You will both be punished for your transgressions."
You watched as Lucifer shielded Lilith with his magnificent wings with little regard for his own well being."S-Sera, please listen to me!" he pleaded. "This isn't what I wanted! Lilith had nothing to do with this, this was my fault! I-I only tried to-"
"SILENCE!" Sera's voice boomed. "As far as Heaven is concerned, you are both responsible. As punishment, you will be sent down into the dark pit you have created. You will never again step foot in Heaven, forever separated from this holy place. The humans who abuse your gift will join you after their death, sharing in your fate. You WILL understand the gravity of your misdeed."
You couldn't handle to hear another word. You mustered all of your strength and were able to break free of the guards' hold on you. You flew as fast as you could, now standing between the doomed lovers and the angelic spears.
"Sera, you can't let them do this!" you begged. "Lucifer only wanted what was best for humanity!"
"And look what his gift has brought," Sera remarked. "He was warned, and you would be wise to move aside."
"If you cast them out, you'll have to cast me out too!" you challenged, barring your teeth, your angelic eyes peering out from your hair. Tears ran down your cheeks at the thought of never seeing your home again. But you were prepared to make that sacrifice.
Sera's eyes narrowed at your words. "What did you know of this?"
"NOTHING!" Lucifer shouted. His hand found it way to your shoulder and managed to push you behind him where Lilith stood trembling. "She didn't know anything! She's only trying to protect me!"
"Lucifer! You can't-" you tried to protest, but you felt a hand cover your mouth. You peered over to Lilith who shook her head solemnly.
"I didn't tell her what I was planning to do," Lucifer continued. "She had nothing to do with this. Please, spare her..."
Sera sighed and soared down to meet the three of you. The spears were lifted away from you, the gaudy splitting to make way for the high seraphim. "Consider this a final act of grace." Her gaze made her way towards your glassy eyes. "I'm sorry, but this is the way it has to be. We will discuss this later." Sera had vanished in a flash and a new portal had suddenly appeared behind you. You peered behind you, seeing nothing but a red barren landscape that struck fear in your heart.
You were petrified. You didn't know what would become of your friend or Lilith, but you knew you were powerless to stop it. Your body gave up, falling to your knees with a thud. Your head sank and you began to weep.
"I'm sorry Lucifer, I'm so sorry," your hoarse voice barely carrying.
"Don't you dare apologize," your friend responded, kneeling down next to you. "This was not your doing."
"B-But..."
"Lilith and I will be alright." You knew he was lying. You shook your head response. "You have to remain in Heaven. They need you here. And so do I." You raised you head, at least meeting Lucifer's pleading eyes. "I will miss you, my dear friend. Please forgive me." You felt the pull of the portal begin to force all of you towards its bleak destination. The guards’ angelic spears were once again at your throats. There was no escape. Lucifer hugged you tight, only for him to pull you up suddenly and push you away from the portal with a hard shove. You weren’t able to find your balance and found yourself back on the courtroom floor. “Go! Now!” he yelled out to you before disappearing into the abyss.
All you could hear their screams as they fell.
#hazbin hotel#lucifer morningstar#hazbin lucifer#hazbin hotel lucifer#lucifer smut#lucifer x reader#my writing#preview#:)
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Love, Lost and Wandered࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
dainleif is scared of forgetting you, he would traverse the cursed plains of the irminsul to remember you. — cursed grounds that belonged to one of those damned archons just to remember you. his curse now includes you as well. im gonna be honest and tell you straight up idk how the irminsul or dainsleif work and whether or not this is accurate to their lore, i just want to write a devoted lover dain who’s willing to beg to the archons for reader like that one questline. also!! reblogs and follows are very appreciated as it lets me know you guys enjoy my writing!! . (reader x dainsleif) oct. 15 2023 part one (?)
dainsleif is too ashamed to admit this aloud but he finds himself forgetting you. who once was his most precious, his beloved; your voice, your laugh, even your smile. — the gods are merciless but were ‘kind’ enough to spare you from turning you into the hilichurls doomed to wander the earth, loyal only to their most primal instincts. they were ‘kind’ enough to spare you from the curse of immortality, the pain of living and unable to die. he wonders which fate would have been better for the both of you, but he does believe death has been the most merciful outcome.
the only thing he has of you is the memory of your name, the love he can’t forget, and the dreams you’ve left with him. — but they’re not immune to the weathering of time. he finds himself slipping, forgetting the little things that complete your image, the treasures he salvaged from the remnants of his home broken down with the centuries that came with immortality and the dreams you held with him now seem blurry as though he couldn’t fathom to sleep and dream without you. it’s been eons and yet he still hasn’t gotten used to your absence beside him.
when fate is kind enough to grant him the time to paint, his mind goes over to the idea of you and he seems to get the gist of your frame, your figure but your face only seems to be drawn as a mixture of swirls, indescribable and indistinguishable from the fog that surrounds the memory of you.
as much as he hated to admit it, he was slowly forgetting you.
but he’s not ready yet, to forget you is to let you die once and for all. he’s the only one who holds the memory of you and if he forgets, you’re gone forever. — amidst the false gods, their endless pride and the heavens; you were the angel that almost made dainsleif believe in divinity.
he’s desperate to maintain that memory of you, to keep you alive and beside him to the best of his ability for forgetting you might doom to an eternity of restless living cursed only for vengeance.
dainsleif was desperate enough to keep that memory of you that he was willing to trek onto the irminsul, the ‘sacred’ grounds of the dendro archon that records say remembers everything. the memories stored within the ley lines that have touched all of teyvat, the ley lines that rooted itself deep beneath the grounds; roots that listened to every drop of rain, whisper and wind. — he was willing to traverse and resort to the divinities he loathed just to remember you. whether it’s be by force, or if he had to kneel, beg and grovel at the archon’s feet just to be welcomed into the dreamlike plains; he would do it for his pride was nothing next to his devotion for you.
the only obstacle now was whether or not the archon, buer was willing to let a khaenri'ahn survivor step foot into the holy grounds. — or if he could even ask for help from the traveler..
#meguminne#genshin x reader#genshin angst#genshin impact#dainsleif#dainsleif x reader#dainsleif x you#dainsleif angst#genshin fluff#khaenri'ah#genshin fanfic#just a little drabble#not lore accurate#i love dainsleif#dains x reader#genshin impact x reader#irminsul#devoted lover#dead reader
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Spotless: Schleppen
Chapter Sixteen
Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela
Other characters: Sam/Madison, Lee/Pam/Benny, Jesse/Cesar, Charlie/OFC, unnamed female character
Word Count: 2644
Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, everyone is hungover, Dean steps in it, Sam is so done with their shit, unbeta'd
Series Masterlist
Dean didn’t sleep. Or if he did, it was in the last gasps of darkness and so short, he couldn’t feel its relief. Alcohol affects the REM cycle, so whoever taught him to have a drink before bed to help with his insomnia (John) was wrong. It was just one of the many things he’d learned in therapy. Dean found he had many things yet to unlearn.
No one who had stayed over was in any better shape when he got downstairs.
Bela and Trouble had bunkered down on the couch in the den, Charlie had claimed one of the bedrooms with a woodland elf, the other spare went to Pam and Lee, but Dean was pretty sure he had heard Benny through the walls, so maybe him too. The other girl Charlie brought along was on the floor curled around Jesse fruitlessly, because Cesar, who was sitting with his back to the end of the couch, still asleep, held his partner’s head in his lap. He wondered if Sam was already up and running until Madison came down the stairs in search of caffeine with a shirtless and rumpled Sam on her heels.
“Morning,” Dean said smugly to them both.
Madison met his gaze and tried not to blush, which Dean found oddly refreshing, while Sam just flipped him off and dove in for a cup of coffee before it was even done brewing.
They moved in hushed whispers, but the Winchesters’ words were doomed to carry with their baritone. After Madison admonished them for not having more to eat in their fridge, Dean stepped up and ordered a combo of both greasy and sweet options to be delivered with an impressive tip to the driver for their discretion.
Bela helped herself to Dean’s shower and some of his clothes. And if anyone had found it odd that they hadn’t slept together, no one was ballsy enough to mention it. Or maybe they were all just too hungover to care.
He still hadn’t seen Pam and company emerge and he wondered if he was going to have to risk walking in on some alternative hangover cures.
Luckily for everyone, the pounding on the front door for the food was enough to rouse the stragglers and beckon them back to civilization.
“Happy 2018 everybody!” Pam croaked with a shiteating grin on her face as she took in everyone’s subdued state.
She was met with lackluster replies, grumbles and a very sarcastic cheer from Charlie. She tutted at them and sauntered her way towards the jelly donuts.
As rough as he felt, Dean lived for mornings (or early afternoons) like this. His kitchen was filled with people he loved, sharing food and just existing together, safe and warm. It’s what being in a band was all about. He started another pot of coffee when Bela slinked over and hugged him from behind, resting her face between his shoulder blades.
“I’ll just have a nap right here, thanks,” she mumbled against his shirt.
“Oh yeah?” Dean peered down at her. “You know, you can take my bed if you’re still tired, not gonna rush anybody out today.”
“‘S too far,” Bela complained. “And I already showered, no sense delaying the inevitable.”
Dean turned in her arms, letting her rest against his chest instead. He rubbed her back and looked up when he felt someone watching him. You sat folded in on yourself on one of the tall chairs, looking as if you were going to puke all over the counter.
“You okay over there?” Dean asked, more alarm slipping into his voice than the jest he intended. He cleared his throat, but didn’t let go of Bela as she turned to look at who he was talking to.
Gaping at him like a deer caught in the headlights, you nodded.
Dean reminded himself to breathe, feeling everything you were saying by the look in your eyes. He fucked up. But in that moment there was nothing he could say that would fix it. Bela was supposed to be his girl, it would be too obvious to step away from her now.
As much as he suddenly wanted distance, he held on tighter, like she was a shield against his feelings for you. And against the look of betrayal in your eyes.
“When do you want to leave— Y/N?” Bela broke through Dean’s silent spiraling and started making plans to get home.
“Lemme drive you guys— could use some fresh air,” Dean cut in before they could order a ride.
“Are you sure? I’m a little out of the way,” you asked, worried over being a burden or being trapped in a car with him, Dean couldn’t be sure.
“Positive, just say when, and I’ll get Baby all set to go,” Dean insisted.
Bela kissed Dean on the cheek and thanked him for a wonderful time, promising to text him her schedule later. She reached over the backseat to grab your hand, smiling mischievously, “another one for the books. See you at brunch?”
“If I can eat by then,” you muttered, smirking as she slid out of the car.
“Bye!” Bela called as she disappeared through the door from the garage into the kitchen.
Dean cleared his throat and leered at you in the rearview mirror.
“You gonna come up here or am I gonna have to call you Miss Daisy?”
You rolled your eyes at him, but you didn’t open your door.
“I can wait all day. If you think you can out- stubborn me–,”
“FINE!” you snapped, throwing open the door and almost slamming it into Bela’s car’s rear end. “Asshole.”
Dean tried not to laugh outright, but you were kind of adorable when you were pissed. Once you were situated in the passenger seat, purse and coat lumped on your lap and seat belt secured, Dean continued to wait.
“What?! We can go now.”
“Easy! I’m just adjusting my mirrors, don’t want to back into anything,” Dean added with an air of responsibility.
“You so were not,” you grumbled, huffing before leering at the sideview as Dean crawled out of Bela’s driveway.
It was going to be a long drive.
Once they were out of the canyon, Dean decided he was going to have to put some of those lessons from Missouri to use. “So— you wanna talk about it?”
You glared at him like he asked if you wanted to eat your jacket.
“Come on, I know you’re pissed. Let me have it,” Dean egged you on, okay, maybe he could have said that better.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, eyes on your hands.
“Really? You gonna pretend you’re not having a bitchfit right now?”
“Dean Henry Winchester, do not make me call Charlie and tell her you called me a bitch.” And just like that you were all in. “I cannot believe you right now.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, look, you can’t just go around kissing people and then shoving your relationship in their faces. It’s called mixed signals, asshole!”
“Oh, so you can call me an asshole, but I can’t call you names?!”
You crossed your arms over your chest. “It’s not the same and you know it.”
Dean sighed, he was letting himself get defensive instead of focusing on what you were really saying. It suddenly felt like a horrible idea to have this conversation when neither of you could escape.
“I don’t know what relationship you’re talking about— the fake dating thing you roped me into?! Cuz that’s not real, that’s playing nice— for you!” Dean hadn’t realized how much he resented you for this whole set up, but now that the words were out of his mouth, things made a lot more sense.
“Bullshit,” you spat.
“You want me to ignore her, huh? Pretend she’s not there, in front of everybody this could hurt if it gets out that it’s all a lie?!”
You turned on him then, taking a deep breath as Dean made sure he wasn’t too distracted to drive. “Is it a lie?”
Dean looked back at the road and licked his lips. How much did you know? How much was it safe to tell you? How much of Bela’s life was private, even from you?
“What are you talking about?! Of course it’s a lie, an act, a ruse! You were the mastermind here, remember?!”
“You know what, Dean? I think the lady doth protest too much,” you said. “I think you know it was wrong to do what you did, but now you’re trying to pin this on me. When I only did it to cover your ass!”
“That is so not fair. I own my shit. What are you really pissed at here? Me in general? Me kissing you? Me hugging Bela? Me making your job harder? WHAT?!”
You groaned. “YES! Okay? YES!”
You stopped your tirade and looked at him and Dean felt you deflate as he glanced back onto the road ahead.
You started over, trying for calm, “you are inherently annoying, I think we both know that.”
Dean huffed. “Yeah, thanks.”
“No, listen. I knew this thing wasn’t going to be easy— for any of us. But it’s the best way to turn everything around. But— if you can’t do it anymore, if there’s something you need to tell me, I’ll understand. We’ll figure it out, okay? Just— just don’t lie to me, okay? I can’t fix things if I don’t have the whole story.”
Dean felt about two inches tall. He wiped his hand down his face and growled, pissed at himself and whatever you were fishing for. Because it was still all his fault. Somehow, he had gotten you home, he pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.
“I can do it, okay? This is on me. I’ll make it right. I’ll be on my best behavior, get us out on tour without a hitch. Make the label all the money and start to earn back everybody’s respect. I owe them all that much,” Dean promised to your suspicious face.
“Dean—”
“What?”
“Is there anything I should know? Seriously. I won’t be pissed. I just— feel like, like I’m out of the loop on this.”
“You were there all night. I think you got a good idea how things are going. Uh, what more can I say, you know? I’m sorry, though, for making you worry. Okay?” Dean ducked his head, making sure you were seeing him, eyes trying to make you see what he couldn’t say, but what he most definitely felt.
Maybe he hadn’t learned anything from Missouri at all. But he was still trying.
“If you’re sure— we’ll keep it going. We've still got over a month before we’re on the road, but it’s gonna go fast now. I just need you to be on your A game,” you said firmly, cementing it into the fabric of your shared reality.
Just keep carrying on.
Dean could do that. He had to.
“Sounds like a plan. And Trouble, do me a favor?” Dean leaned over, slipping into his charming self. “You gotta loosen up, okay? Get a hobby, get laid, just find somewhere to put all this shit you carry so it’s not weighing you down. Okay?”
You sighed and rolled your eyes, tossing the door open and crawling out. “Like it’s that easy. Happy New Year, Dean, drive safe.”
“Later.”
Dean waited until you made it into the house before starting the engine back up. He didn’t go home right away, instead he took a drive along the coast, letting his mind try and untangle the knot you’d just made by having that conversation.
Six am came way too early the following morning and with it, Sam pounding on Dean’s door to get his ass downstairs and into the gym. Right, his New Year’s resolution and his fucking brother holding him to it.
“Gotta piss, calm down Billy Blanks,” Dean groaned, rolling out of bed.
He did his business, changed into something he could move around in, and finally found some tennis shoes at the back of his closet.
By the time he made it into the part of their basement they had turned into a gym, Sam was already sweating with a jump rope warm up.
“What?! I’m here aren’t I? It’s not that late,” Dean grumbled at Sam’s judgey face.
They worked out with little discussion, spotting each other when they moved onto weights. They hadn’t worked out the details of this new shared routine, but slowly Dean felt it falling into place. The strain of his muscles and the swelling of his lungs all reminded him to be present and mindful. To let his body take over building when his mind wanted to use it to punish.
After they had stretched and were winding down, Dean decided to tape up his hands and spend some time on their speed bag. But, of course, that drew Sam’s attention.
Anything that hinted at Cain or Alastair always did.
“What?”
Sam looked him over. “You good?”
Dean didn’t want to have a different version of the trainwreck conversation the day before. But Sam knew everything, more or less anyway. Dean didn’t look up from his task, mesmerized by how soft his knuckles had gotten recently.
“I kissed Trouble.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Sam laughed, actually, genuinely laughed at him. “How’d that go?”
Dean considered the act itself. “Well—- she didn’t hit me.”
Sam sat down on the end of the bench, settling in for the dirt. “Were you expecting her to?
Dean looked over and saw Sam was no longer teasing. “Could you blame her? Some guy like me? A fuck up with a history of diddling her friends?”
“Dean.”
“I know, I know. Believe in myself. I am worthy of love. I know, okay. Just… she didn’t say anything. Just stood there after pulling away, staring at me in total shock.”
“Did she kiss you back?”
Dean thought about it, remembering the way your mouth let him in. “At first, yeah.”
Sam chewed that over. “Does Bela know how you feel about her?”
“Sam, I’m not even sure how I feel about her.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah you are. You just have been too stupid and self deprecating to do anything about it. Does she?”
Dean shook his head.
“Are you guys fucking?”
“Not like, committedly.”
“Okay, well, you should probably stop that. And tell Trouble how deep you’re in it. Like, I hate being alone with you two, it’s so obvious.”
Dean flipped Sam off.
“What? No, I’m serious. You guys just need to get over your shit and tell each other how you feel. And warn me, because I do not want to come home for like a week after all those years of tension is finally worked out, god.”
Dean kind of gets lost in that image for a minute. “Nah, we’d go to her place. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Sam couldn’t even tease him after how pathetic he sounded. “But first you need to tell her.”
Dean sighed. “I can’t. I promised her I’d behave and stick to the plan. I can’t risk pissing off Dick and Crowley anymore, I don’t want to jeopardize the band.”
“I’m pretty sure I told you this was a bad idea and I just want to reiterate that point,” Sam snarked.
“Yeah, well, them’s the breaks,” Dean huffed as he hauled himself up and squared off with the hanging bag.
He found a rhythm and kept on his toes.
“Dean, seriously, just tell her how you feel. Life’s too short, you know?” Sam said to Dean’s back.
Dean sighed, upping his pace. Because, yeah, life was really too short.
But there was still nothing he could do about it now.
Author's Note: LISTEN! I did not even outline the first 2/3rds of this chapter. IT just HAPPENED, so yeah, they're still both idiots.
Tagging:
@deans-spinster-witch
@mrswhozeewhatsis
@cosicas-cuquis
@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like
@suckitands33
@ladysparkles78
@deans-baby-momma
@stoneyggirl2
@sassy-pelican
@leigh70
@globetrotter28
@winharry
@lastactiontricia
@rockhoochie
Chapter Seventeen: Trill
#spotless series#dean/reader#dean/bela#fake dating#rockstar au#slow burn#dean angst#dean winchester fanfiction#should i be calling this a love triangle
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Deus ex machina | A.S
Summary: When three armed men broke into yours and Arthur's house, you knew you were doomed. You locked your newborn into a room and prayed he'd be spared. When Arthur told you to hide and got rid of the invaders, you didn't believe it. It felt like an unrealistic, badly written book. But life isn't a book, and if Arthur had such skills, there clearly was much about his past you didn't know.
A/N: This was requested by @call-sign-shark <3. I'm kinda nervous because 1. I'm writing for an Arthur professional 2. I finished this with a TERRIBLE headache, so I didn't proofread it. Anyways, hope you enjoy it!
Prompt “All this time I've been hoping you wouldn't recognize me” + Arthur Shelby.
Even with shaky, sweating hands, you protectively stood in front of your baby's crib. The stiletto you held was the only weapon you believed to have in the house. The room's door was locked and it was the only barrier between you and the war zone outside.
The shadows of three men behind the front door were all you saw before Arthur told you to hide. Then, all you could do was listen, the men's heavy steps, what you assumed was them going through the drawers, how they broke every porcelain decoration and how they knocked down your beloved bookshelf.
If this was a book maybe you wouldn't be so scared, you'd be sure if they got to the room you'd be able to fight, finding strength in the darkest side of motherhood, staining your hands with blood for the baby's sake. However, it wasn't, and even if you'd kill for your child if needed, you knew the chances of getting out alive were few.
To complete the disturbing scenario, you could barely hear Arthur's steps, as if he was gone from the house, abandoning you and the child for his own survival.
Walking closer to the door, you pressed your ear to the wood surface, holding your breath to hear clearly.
“Where's the bastard?” one of the men said.
The dialog continued in a foreign language and suddenly, you jumped away from the door, holding the stiletto in the direction of the noise. Your chest moved up and down worryingly fast as you heard what you assumed a machine gun sounded like.
Shouts were heard followed by a single shot and strong stumbles. Everything went silent. Looking back to the crib, you wondered if you should unlock the door, all the diverse possibilities of what could've happened messed up your mind but eventually, when no other sounds were heard, you knew there was no other option.
Walking out the room as silently as possible, you had to stop the urge of vomiting at the scenario in the living room.
Two men's dark blood covered your beautiful mat, their eyes were still open, glassy and lifeless, not matching the surprised expression on their faces. In the hallway to the kitchen, laid another one, with a knife wound in the ribs and another in his throat.
Before you could call for your husband, water sounds attracted you to the bathroom. There he was, breathing heavily, frenetically washing his hands with a gun near his feet.
“It wasn't supposed to happen,” he drawled, looking at you through the mirror.
You immediately teared up, not sure of how to proceed from there, he had just risked his life to keep you safe but also, he kept this side of him hidden for years. Whoever this man was, it wasn't the Arthur you married. Only when his hand washing got too aggressive, you snapped out of trance.
“It's okay,” you whispered, taking his hands on yours, you washed the blood away while he rested his head on your shoulder.
He brushed his face against your cheek, his mustache scratching your sensitive skin. Intertwining your fingers with his now clean ones, you squeezed his hand tightly.
“What the fuck was that, Arthur?” you got courage to ask.
“I had to do it,”
“I know, but what-” you looked at the gun at your feet, “What the hell is that?”
Staring at it, the world got quiet for a minute, Arthur's blue eyes burnt on you as yours saw nothing but the gun, as if it had come out from a trench itself. To be honest, you wouldn't know how to accurately describe a weapon that was used at war, perhaps it'd be rusty and permanently damaged like the soldiers to handle it.
Or perhaps it wouldn't, so trying to keep the mess your life had just become the clearest as possible, it'd be fairer to say the gun came out from one of the books in the living room, brutality ripped from the pages when the invaders knocked the shelf down.
And of course, as if in the last chapter of a book, the hero Arthur Shelby remembers the gun he conveniently had at home, a little souvenir from his years as a soldier that now would be used to save everyone. What a beautiful, extremely unrealistic ending.
Except that your life wasn't a book and if your husband had reason to keep a machine gun in the house, then he wasn't who you thought he was.
His wet hands gently wrapped around your arms, “It's alright now, love, I'll just call Tommy and we'll know what was that about, eh?”
“Tommy? There are three dead men in my living room and you want to call Tommy?” you scoffed, “Call the police!”
“We can't do that,”
“What?! Are you serious?!”
“Love, I-” he gulped, “I can explain, alright? Come to the kitchen with me and I'll explain everything, we'll have a nice cup of tea and I'll explain,”
“I'm not going out there,” you argued, surely the bathroom wasn't proper to have such a conversation, but you didn't think seeing those corpses again for a single cup of tea was a nice exchange.
“Stay here then, I'll come back in a second,” he walked to the door, looking back at you with apologetic eyes before adding, “I'll be back, alright?”
He was away for only a few seconds, returning with an old newspaper in hand.
“Remember when we just moved and you read the newspaper every day? Remember a Thursday morning you thought it was weird they didn't deliver any?”
He handed it to you, the headline talked about a club being invaded and a man being murdered, below there was a blurry picture of Arthur and John, they looked much younger than the publication date and the journalist explained local gangs were always prime suspects, but were never caught due police bribery.
“All this time I've been hoping you wouldn't recognize me,” he explained.
You gulped, leaning on the sink and putting the newspaper down. How should you even feel about this? Disappointed? Angry? Fooled? Your stomach sank as you squeezed your eyes shut and when you opened it again, Arthur was right in front of you, cupping your face between his calloused hands.
“I never meant to lie to you, I didn't know how to tell and- You'd leave me if I-”
He stopped talking as you pushed his hands away. This time you leaned on the wall a few steps away from him, you touched the gun with your bare feet, even with Arthur's explanation it still didn't make any sense to you.
“Forgive me, love,” he pleaded.
Any answer you could think of was silenced by the baby's cries upstairs. Your throat tightened and you sighed, “Clean this mess, I'll tend the baby.”
“So am I-”
“When you know what this was all about, we'll talk again.”
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You can't really do much for Valentine's in space, especially if your boyfriend is on the other side of the Universe with the BoM.
No one says a word as Lance mopes through the castle. His messages to Keith were left on read, everyone else was too busy, and not even the mice were willing to spare him a stray moment of comfort.
So here Lance is, wandering around aimlessly sulking to himself dramatically. No one else seemed to know nor care what day it was, hell he only knew bc he happened to glance at the earth calendar Pidge made.
Not that is really mattered. Valentine's Day wasn't exactly a holiday people did a whole lot for if they weren't dating, but it made Lance miss Keith all the more.
A couples holiday Lance was sure Keith wasn't even aware of, spent alone in the castle halls on a slow day.
Oh woe is he.
Slowly but surely Lance realizes his feet carry him in a familiar direction. The path so ingrained that even when he yearns for a Keith that isn't there his feet will lead him straight to the other man's door.
Lance pauses before it, contemplating his options.
How pathetic. How rude. He is stronger than this! He's a bad bitch he doesn't need no man! He can totally survive without Keith!
. . .
Lance enters the room.
Simply walking in and existing in Keith's space makes Lances shoulders ease. He hates to admit how much he misses his boyfriend because Lance knows it hurts him when he does. Yet now he's alone looking at everything this man owns wishing he was here by his side.
He takes his time brushing fingers over the growing collection of photos and trinkets they'd finally managed to get Keith to agree to. They say cozily on the side table right in the entry way for him to look at every time he came and went. It had taken time to get the samurai to realize he was allowed to hold onto something no matter how small it may seem.
It started with a picture, a photo of the entire team on one rare day spent together between missions. From there his collection grew with gifts, trinkets, memories he could think back on with love. All gathered by his hands, all heartfelt gifts from the team, from his family.
Lance smiles softly at every single one. It's all proof that Keith was here, proof that he will return, proof that he considered this home.
It's when Lance lays down clutching a jacket Keith left behind that he realizes how special it is to have this space to see while he's gone. He has Keith's space to move in while Keith likely has nothing....
He makes a mental note to gather things to brighten up Keith's blade bunk, maybe it'll help brighten everyone's bunk. Lance has never been inside but he bets it's bland in there. Would Kolivan even allow such a thing? Lance doesn't care if he doesn't, he'll send Keith with things anyways! Maybe if he gathers enough things the whole of the blade can decorate their ship to be a little less doom and gloom–
Through all his thinking Lance tosses and turns in Keith's bed, rolling in his scent that lingers faintly in his absence. He'd be embarrassed but no one was there to judge him. Keith wouldn't ever know and neither would the team and even if they did Lance thinks he has a fair claim to Keith's room. It's his duty as his boyfriend to wallow in his absence! Lance is but a wife awaiting her husband to return from war....only, they're both at war...and–well, that's not the important part.
Lance squirms attempting to get his mind off the schematics. All his dramatics shuffle the blankets and pillows they'd both collected there for prime cuddle time, then, something pokes at Lances back.
He huffs, annoyed that something would dare cause discomfort during his time of pain and suffering.
When he flips over to look at the offending object he sees the sharp corner of an envelope folded up, it peeks just from under the pillow pile innocent in its appearance as if it always belonged there.
Lance slides it free, looking it over carefully only to find his name on the front.
It says nothing else so he opens it to pull free the folded paper inside.
Where would Keith even find paper in space? Not that it's the paper they were used to it's far too thick and oddly velvety but it's a novelty nonetheless.
He unfolds it. It's dated at the top to a time before Keith left and written like an old letter, not one too terribly long but it's even signed off like one you'd see in movies.
No one wrote letters anymore yet Keiths handwriting stares back at him so clearly.
Dear Lance,
I don't know when you'll find this and I don't know when I'll be back so I thought I'd leave something behind just in case. Hopefully you're reading this on Valentine's Day so that if we spend it apart you aren't without a symbol of my love to you.
Lance reads through the words like a dying man in the desert. He doesn't even make it halfway through the letter before the tears start to fall. Keith is so incredibly thoughtful when given the chance to show it and here's the proof right in Lances hands. The man had made sure Lance would know he was his Valentine because he knew how much Lance loved the silly holiday. It's so stupidly sweet itales Lances heart ache for him.
He writes the things he loves about Lance, he writes the way he feels when he looks at him. Keith writes like he's pouring his heart and soul into the papers pulp. As if he's allowing for Lance to hold his heart in his hands.
It's single handedly the most romantic gesture has ever received.
"Stupid...." Lance sniffles "I didn't get to send you off with any proof that I feel the same." He dries his eyes as to not get the paper wet before continuing to read.
You thanked me once, saying you were grateful to have met me, but all I could think was that I should be the one whose thanking you.
You changed my life, Lance. I should be the one thanking you, god, the entirety of the universe- whoever it is that needs to hear it- because I am thankful to have known you in this lifetime. I am thankful to know I will go the rest of my life with memories of you.
I never knew I was capable of love like this. It had always been imaginary before you. I love you Lance McClain, more than you'll ever know.
If your dream is to fly then mine is to watch you soar, to watch you smile,to watch you get everything I can possibly give to you because you deserve the world...no, the universe and if I could gift it to you I would on a silver platter. But, for now this letter will have to be enough, hopefully you can accept that for now sweetheart.
Happy valentines day, know I am always thinking of you.
-Keith K.
Lance immediately grabs his com-device, he doesn't care if Keith will leave him on read, doesn't care if that bastard won't pick up. He doesn't go to pour out his feelings just yet, no, he'll do that to Keith's stupid romantic face, but he does send him a warning.
Sharpshooter: If you don't come back soon I will hunt you down myself
It's marked read not long after. A brief . . . blinks before vanishing.
Samurai: Happy valentines day to you too Lance.
He blinks down at Keith's response, at the first response Lance has gotten from him in days.
"That son of a bitch!"
Nothing else he sends gains a response, every single message marked with that annoying little read checkmark.
OH. Now it's on! Lance thinks to himself as he begins to plot his revenge.
He will not be out romanced and if Keith thinks he knows what's coming? He hasn't the faintest clue.
Happy Valentines Day! 💘
#voltron#vld#lance vld#lance mcclain#vld lance#klance#keith kogane#keith x lance#keith voltron#i love the idea of lance being mopy and dramatic#and keith being able to better convey his feelings in writing#lance has his own plans for Keith he planned MONTHS in advance#keith panicked before leaving on his blade mission bc he realized where valentines would fall#he knew lance would mope around in his room so he just hoped hed find it on actual Valentine's day#he got lucky#if yall want a lance ver for lances plotting lmk i can do a part two
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only maggots love the taste of rotting flesh.
cw: blood, gore, angst, really bad attempt at being poetic, reader implied to be from another world/universe(isekai), dead dove: do not eat
no character is mentioned, but it’s a jujutsu kaisen…. thing i wrote, i honestly don’t know what to call this
what were you doing…?
what have you….. done….?
blood rushed to your head and you suddenly couldn’t feel your feet and hands anymore, besides the aching cold that filled you to your bones.
your knees screamed, the rough, cracked ground you kneeled on duh into your skin like needles. but you didn’t move just yet, your body just… refuse to let you turn away from the gruesome scene in front of you.
one that you alone had caused.. this, was your own doing…
at one point a painful sound rung through your ears, piercing your eardrums, red bleeding down your neck onto clothes you borrowed.
you didn’t notice, it felt as if everything around you was dulled yet so enhanced at the same time. you thought if you felt hard enough, you could feel the pitter patter of ants from the park far away, that was spared by the havoc.
god…. have you always been this cruel?
you never thought you could fall this far.
clarity, yet you couldn’t even see your own perspective anymore. you lost sight of something you could barely remember anymore, lost in a war that had nothing to do with you, that shouldn’t have been possible to have anything to do with you.
yet… like a fool, you went with whatever was thrown at you… instead of helping yourself, like you always did, instead of taking things into your own hands, like you knew you had to.
you sat around and did nothing: twiddled your thumbs, achieving nothing to help your peculiar case.
the day you came to was a blur, yet you seemed to gain a sense of deja vu, red filling to much of your unfocused view.
you breathed calmly, deep breaths that made your lungs want to burst out of your chest in shame of what you’ve achieved.
your heart beating uncomfortably fast, but not enough to be threatening.
it felt like when you didn’t sleep a minute at night, your body doing everything to pull your through the day, while also staying alive and alert, creating an almost out of body experience, you could see yourself kneeling in front of the growing pool of crimson blood.
the one you created, on your own with no one to blame but your own.
god, those hands that were smeared with cake batter just a few days prior, now forever stained with cooling blood of someone you recognize.
you took another deep breath and your lips parted, cracking and tearing apart, fresh dropplets of blood filling the spaces between dried skin, your teeth coated in a lot more of the same liquid, horrifying, as it forced it’s way down your throat.
you didn’t even mind the taste.
your hands shook, as did your vision as you looked at the appendages, moving them in any kind of way hurt as dried wounds reopened, ripping open even more and your bones scratched from below.
your skeleton wanted to escape its sinful bindings, and so did you, run away to a place that wasn’t this, that wasn’t here.
hide from the world and rot until dirty maggots feast upon you like you are a delicacy, loving your taste, your texture, your thoughts and feelings.
loving you, even if they were lowly, filthy things that crawled to the dead like moths to a flame.
eating hole in your heart, finding there is one already, round and empty, black and blistering like tar, bleeding into your live essence, mingling with your blood like old friends. when it shed, only then was it’s true nature revealed, sticking to everything like sweet, sweet honey, everything you once reached for so hopefully, was painted it’s ugly color, the saccharine smell attracting flies to lay their spawn, setting their doom.
yet you were still alive, the maggots loved your flesh, yet you moved and lived and continued on with your live, letting decay fall upon all without a care.
you should‘ve helped yourself, when you still had the chance, now you killed and your fate was sealed, your doom was to come. you felt it in your corroding heart, you felt it.
god, or was that feeling just the larva indulging in your core?
#gn reader#someone help#x gender neutral reader#x reader#gender neutral#jjk angst#jujutsu kaisen#tw death#cw: gore#maggots#bad poetry#i was in a mood#gojo satoru#geto suguru#sukuna#megumi fushiguro#yuji itadori#male reader#you killed someone#isekai
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Undertale Yellow: An amazing fangame with one glaring thing I hate about it (that I need to rant about or else I'm going to go insane).
As the title says, Undertale Yellow was a game I really enjoyed playing. Lots of fun dialogue and designs, utterly fantastic art and animation (holy hell that Flowey fight! <3 <3 <3), great music and feels, etc.
Seriously it deserves a ton of praise, not only as a fully completed fangame that took years of development, but as genuinely amazing prequel to one of my favorite games of all time.
...Unfortunately. Much as I truly enjoyed playing through the majority of the game, when I finished the True Pacifist route I was intensely unhappy with how that went and while the credits scenes and funeral for Cover helped ease some of the worst of it, I cannot help but wonder who the flipping f$%& in the development team thought presenting Clover's suicide as the 'just and happy' ending that all the friend characters accept with barely any argument was a good idea?!
Now to clarify: I went into Undertale Yellow knowing that Clover was going to die and that there were good odds their death was going to be self sacrificial or involve suicide. Undertale Yellow is a prequel to Undertale after all and children being murdered and/or sacrificing themselves for the greater good of lovable monster kind is an established part of the setting.
I came in knowing this game was bound to end tragically. I was excited to see how this game would pull that inevitable tragedy off while exploring the Yellow soul's theme of Justice and staying true to Undertale's established canon.
And all the way right up to the end of the True Pacifist ending I truly thought they'd nailed it: The constant pressure of the monsters suffering and being trapped in the Underground despite their sweet and earnest natures, Dalv's clear issues regarding a human, Starlow's unintentional reinforcement of the 'one sacrifice for the greater good' idea with his trolley problem reenactment, the repeated back to back betrayals from characters who should be friends (the Feisty Five, Starlow, Ceraba) hurting Clover instead, the dull realization in universe for Clover that all their efforts to find the missing human children were all for nothing...
It was fantastic. There was a real sense of looming dread for me, seeing all those moments and just knowing in my gut that after the desperate struggle with the agonized and grieving Ceraba, ranting about how monster kind is doomed as it stands, that Clover would start thinking of sacrificing their life for monster kind, especially when their 'sense of Justice' at the start of the game had them willingly jump into a gaping pit they couldn't have possibly have known the height of, for the sake of mission they (according to Flowey) easily abandon when offered a loving home instead.
(aka implying not so great things about how much they value their own life)
So. With all that 'hyped for tragedy' in mind, there I am at the True Pacifist ending.
I've just spared Ceraba, the friends are all arguing as to how to keep Clover (and possibly any future humans who fall) safe and Clover begins to go into something of a zone out, thinking about all the things they've heard and seen over the course of their adventure.
This is it! I think to myself as I watch it play out. This is where Clover, after everything they've been through, makes the tragic yet understandable mistake of running away from their friends and confronting Asgore just as Flowey kept encouraging them to! Not to fight and bring Asgore to justice but to try talking him down and when they fail that, offering up their life to help and 'save' their friends even as the narrative will (matching Undertale) will make it clear that this is a mistake and only hurts everyone involved, just like every suicide and child murder in Undertale hurts everyone involved until Frisk is able to end the cycle of pain by rejecting the Kill or be Killed premise and setting the monsters free! Wow, I can't believe it, they set it up so well, what a perfect way to tie into Undertale's greater narrative via tragic prequel, I love this eeeeee!
Except of course that's not what happens.
My first hint something is off is when the quotes Clover's 'remembering' in their little bubble start being way too positive for the set up (also there's nothing from the trolley problem section).
The second is when the music shifts from quiet to holy and then outright happy.
And third is when Clover snaps out of it and point blank tells their friends they choose to die.
Now, I'm getting a little confused and wary at this but alright, this is a pretty long sequence already but I guess we get to have one final hope moment before Clover somehow gets away from their friends to die (maybe Flowey if not Asgore?)-
-and then I am left absolutely flabbergasted as the friends who just spent the last huge chunk of the game trying to protect Clover/getting talked out of killing them because 'its not right' end up agreeing with Clover's decision after a pitiful amount of arguing against it (where the utterly stupid 'there's no other option' reasoning is used as the primary reasoning despite all the other options being very clearly stated just moments ago), before the woman who's entire massive trauma arc that is centered around her accidentally killing her own child out of blind faith for 'the greater good', proceeds to assist Clover with their suicide (who she clearly views as a surrogate child despite her best attempts not to) while the other characters meekly say goodbye, give hugs and leave all while bittersweet but mostly sweet 'great job honey, this sucks but we're proud of you' music plays (also Flowey says stuff but like, its Flowey so frankly he could say anything and it'd be fine. He's not the issue here).
...Wow.
What a screwed up way for that to end. Like, I clearly get the 'idea' that Clover is meant to be noble and good and such but like, really?
A fan game of Undertale (where one of the main ending messages was 'Don't kill and don't be killed', where a child's suicidal attempts to free monster kind lead to every major tragedy in the game, and where suicide was repeatedly shown to only make things worse through Asgore and Alphys in numerous neutral endings) is the game that decides having its protagonist's pointless self sacrifice should be honored and treated as a good ending by the narrative?????
How did none of the otherwise clearly brilliant people working on this miss the very bad, no good implications of Clover's friends being talked into letting them kill themselves and having the narrative frame it as anything but the worst end?????
I have many, many questions. And concerns. And...
Look, I do get it. Undertale Yellow is still a fangame. There are going to be weird notes in the tone due to different writers and such, and I should just be happy that the game was finished it at all, and accept that this god awful scene is probably just the result of its creators really, really wanting their beloved characters to go out as kindly (and beautifully drawn/animated) as possible with all the hugs and feels of canon Undertale without taking into account how much the very different context might warp the tone and the characterizations of everyone in the entire scene.
But like. God damn. There is something very off putting about not letting brave kind Martlet refuse to take this as an answer and then finding she actually can't stop it happening (and no her saying that after like two sentences from 'Ceraba who's judgement about the human sucks' doesn't count). About Starlow not recognising he and his posse might've had something to do with why Clover is thinking this. About Ceraba not on some level going 'IF THIS IS YOUR CHOICE THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME USE YOU TO SAVE KANAKO?!'
Edit: Also a totally waste of prequel opportunity not to let Asgore visibly make the worst choices we canonly know he made on screen. Yes, he gets to stab Clover in the Flawed!Pacist route but Clover's trying to shoot him in that one; the fact we don't get to see him stab a 'far too willing to die for their friends and not defending themselves' Clover as the friend trio can do nothing to stop it from happening feels like such a cop out I swear XD
I'm all for 'Clover dies willingly' at the end of the True Pacifist but they way they did it was just... Really ugh in a way I'm finding tricky to word and I'm honestly shocked I haven't seen more people point it out (though admittedly that might be because I haven't really looked around much).
...So yeah. I know its too late to change said ending but really kinda hoping at some point one of the Undertale Yellow team realizes this might be an issue and thinks to add a content warning in the game's opening or something because it could really use one of those.
Also that for any future projects they do, they happen to do a little more research into how to avoid accidentally glorify suicide as opposed to having it as a tragedy because damn they did not manage that here whatsoever.
---
ANYWAY, with all that rant finally out of my head some other stuff about Undertale Yellow I be feeling strongly:
Flowey's boss battle and the lead up to it is incredible and without a doubt makes the neutral route the most amazing well crafted route in the game. 10/10 may have already mentioned this in the massive rant above but if so gonna repeat it anyway because it's just that damn good.
Genocide route being a deconstruction of the 'disproportionate revenge is justice' 90s Anti Hero is very cool theme wise but the lack of the lack of stuff like notes in shops saying 'please don't kill my family' and monsters with less screen time getting more fleshed out drags it down a little, as does Clover not actually choking on dust or getting attacked by the human souls or something at the very end.
Really do love the Martlet battle flashback moments and Axel's horrifically timed confession scene though.
The general uselessness of the ACT menu in big 'endurance' fights as well as the lack of 'alternative sparing ACTS' makes fights a lot less fun than they could be and I found myself a lot less willing to use them in general as a result despite them being my favorite thing about Undertale. Did still adore what fun stuff was in them though so I think it's just a case of them being a tad too out of focus compared to the bullet hell gameplay (which I'm not that good at) for my tastes.
Pacifist route could've really used some more optional hangouts and/or letters from the main friends. As is, the peak 'hang out' part of the game for me was the nap room I spent maybe two minutes in, and Dalv especially could've benefitted a ton from a bit more presence (I got more interaction from Mo and the rabbit who's tongue was stuck to a pole and I'm not happy about that? If nothing else not getting to see the inside of Martlet's house or help Dalv build his new home feel like lost opportunities).
Personal pet peeve and nothing too serious but not a fan of Asgore not getting the kill on Clover outside of Flawed Pacifist. Makes sense on most routes (glares at T!Pacifist again) given the way the plot is set up and all but given Toby Fox has repeatedly stated Asgore killed all the humans who fell post Chara it just drives me nuts XD
(As does the poor Blue Soul getting treated as a killer/evil but like, I can see where people are coming on that one and Undertale Yellow uses that to amp up Chujin's nightmare fuel vibes fantastically so I shall reluctantly congratulate that theory's use there and steel myself for the inevitable 'wait you're using Undertale Yellow lore but Axis didn't kill Integrity?' questions that will be posted on my 'will eventually be posted' Undertale fanfics XDDDD)
Love all the main cast, especially Martlet, and I am way too hyped for the day Undertale Yellow and its main cast get their own fandom tags on AO3.
...Kanako's death was incredibly stupid and avoidable but like, that's kind of what I like about it? I really also wanna know which Amalgamite she became (I'm thinking probably the one that tucks Frisk in to sleep and pats them on the head because of her and Ceraba's little 'going to sleep' game but like, I could see a very heart wrenching case for her being part of So Cold as well).
Anyone reading this who somehow hasn't played Undertale Yellow should really stop reading this and go play the game. It's free, its (one major thematic issue I have moral objections to aside) pretty decently written, and hey, more Undertale stuff to have fun making fanworks with <3
Goddamn has Undertale Yellow kicked my drive to write Undertale fanfic into overload XD
Thank you Undertale Yellow team for helping me get all fired up again and sorry about all the grr but dang it, it needed to be said and now that it's out of my system I can throw myself into finding ways to incorporate your settings and characters into fanworks of my own (admittedly the AU elements might make things kinda tricky -Asgore having to kill EVERY human child even more so- but that nifty little detail of early Royal Guard Martlet having and being willing to abuse her access to the Hotland Lab allows me so many ways to have Chujin be a well meaning awful person and I am living for it!) <3 <3 <3
#Undertale Yellow#undertale#fangame#undertale spoilers#undertale yellow spoilers#tw discussion of suicide and suicide related themes#game rants#constructive criticism (well hopefully anyway)#Fais rambles#I have been hesitating over the post now button for twenty minutes now and I really should not be this nervous. I'm not even rude dang it#oh wait I forgot swearing is rude in some places#cw swearing#ut yellow#uty#uty spoilers
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Emet-Selch determined to save his people no matter what, even though he's exhausted, even though he's lost so much, just like the WoL.
Emet-Selch an unrivaled master of his magical field, an extremely powerful wizard, carrying the last spark of hope for his people, desperate to restore a doomed world, just like G'raha Tia.
Emet-Selch struggling to separate the face of a friend from the face of a stranger, hoping there is a part of the soul that came before still inside, a memory, a semblance, anything - and wounded by grief every time he looks at them, just like Thancred.
Elidibus haunted by almost memories, things frustratingly familiar, people he lost in a dream who he must now oppose, wanting to save everyone and cut to his core with the knowledge that he cannot, like the WoL.
Elidibus giving up part of his body, a hopeful, noble youth devoting himself entirely to a cause, going on alone because he's the only one who can, fighting long after there was any hope... and trapped in a crystal tower, like G'raha Tia.
Elidibus losing his sense of self to the myriad of voices, becoming the heart of a god and then a slave to the dreams of all mankind, but never losing that splintered, bloody spear of love for his people that harmed as much as it helped, like Venat.
Hythlodaeus possessed of remarkable talents, but convinced he's nothing special, finding purpose in a life spent beside his friends, helping them be the heroes who stand in the light, willing to die feeling only gladness if it might spare his loved ones, like G'raha Tia.
Hythlodaeus and the masses of Amaurot who sacrificed themselves one after another in a blind hope that their world could be saved and in the end they would be restored by their heroes. And the Scions who did the same, but succeeded, because they carried wisdom the ancients didn't have but which only those ghosts could provide.
Azem, who stood for the people, opposing Zodiark and Hydaelyn both even as the world came crashing down. The bridge between. And the Warrior of Light who did the same.
All the characters who lose someone, lose everything, and choose to fight for their world, anyway, or even because of what they lost.
All the characters who realize they believed in a lie, and embrace the truth even when it's hard... and all the ones who don't.
All the characters too blinded by grief and anger to hope, until someone takes their hand and tells them this isn't the end... and the ones that are consumed by despair.
All the characters who cannot carry the torch any longer, who entrust their legacy to those who will continue on, and at last find peace.
Telling the world to keep hoping, that things change but they don't end, that people leave but they're not gone, that we are all imperfect sparks and we may harm as much as we help but we all matter, that our love still matters, and it's what saves us
#im replaying shadowbringers and laying on the floor staring at the ceiling bc this game#ffxiv#emet selch#elidibus#graha tia#thancred#venat#hythlodaeus#crystal exarch#endwalker spoilers#shadowbringers spoilers#text#shower thoughts
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"I find it tasteless that you don’t really care what KF did to those young people as long as your golden boy comes out looking alright...."
"You’ll defend anything adjacent to D. I see a lot of arguments that do not have anything to back it up, like he probably acted inappropriately while drunk at a party before and so what? I’m taking about MP (who said she was drunk?) being unable to control herself because she needed everyone to know she was with D and touches his dick in her spare time. Disturbingly, that’s what seems to give her self-worth. All that is why she’s not very likable or tolerable. Evidence shows that chiropractic adjustments do more to harm than help, but as long as people feel they work everything is hunky-dory? It alarming that you don’t care about real harm being done to people’s spines because it’s D’s gf’s father providing the service? I can’t respect people who push any of that bull crap."
-@iwantapenguin, 2024
Lie, verb: lied; lying. To make an untrue statement with intent to deceive. To create a false or misleading impression.
Slander, verb: slandered, slandering. To make false and damaging statements about (someone).
Gloves off, then. But next time, tag me properly so I can be notified that you are going to abandon a civil discussion and resort to violence.
Post I'm responding to here (and tangentially, here.)
I shall also give you the curtesy of quoting you directly so that everyone can judge for themselves if my claims are valid, fair, or truthful.
**Note**: I do not begrudge anyone feeling disgusted or grossed out by age gap relationships: the majority of those relationships start from a bad place, continue in a bad place, and are doomed to fail or take both parties down with it. However, the accusations flung against David and Monique without merit-- not those that are or were provably awkward or roughshod -- are a waste of my time, energy, and brain power. Give me proof or give me death.
First: "Whataboutism?" Wherefore art thou, 'Whataboutism'?
Next: "People who post their family’s whole lives on social media for attention or to make money are vultures." Except Monique doesn't get a cut off of management deals, engagement, or even ads. DD and his kids have posted pics of their personal lives, homes, and vacations, as well. They not only let Monique continue to post pics and videos, but also respond to (West) or engage with (David) them. And hi, yes, hello, I also despise family vloggers because they exploit children who can't consent.
Next: "MP has thousands of followers she does not know, so private her account is not." ...What? You can have a private account and still have followers without following them. I know people who operate their dinosaur Facebook accounts like that, young and old generation; and they're most certainly private citizens. I know youngins and oldins who operate their Twitters like that. You probably do, too, or at least know someone who does. I'm hungry for facts, but nothing's been proven with that statement.
Next: "D is so clueless he didn’t know that Gillian was taking BTS pictures on TXF’s set to post on Instagram." David didn't know GA was posting their bts vids online, true; but he was also the one who brought up that she was "always taking pictures and videos" when they were discussing fan engagement; and he and she both laughed over it while he assured Gillian he was okay with "it", regardless.
Their exact dialogue, transcribed:
David: "You know how stupid I am? How innocent and naive I am? You would take a video and I'd go 'oh, cool'."
Gillian: *smiling* "And not realize that I was gonna post it?"
David: *smiling*: "Yeah, and then you'd post it. It'll be like, 'Oh. Well, I should have taken a look at that one.'
Both: *laughing*
Gillian: "Well, you never complained so I thought you were okay with whatever...."
David: "I AM o-- y'know, none of it was terrible; but it was like, I never think to do it."
Also, he clarified in May 2015 (before, as you theorize, Monique could have gotten her hands on his phone or publicly posted about him) that he doesn't trust social media because of the assumptions, misinterpretations, and no-going-back nature of technology: "The 54-year-old actor, who has daughter West, 16, and son Miller, 12, with ex-wife Téa Leoni, admits he only uses Twitter because he was ''prodded to do it.'' The 'Aquarius' star said: ''I'm skeptical of Twitter. I'm prodded to do it, and so I do it. But I feel like there is an opportunity to screw up constantly. You have to be careful. It doesn't go away anymore! I tell my kids the same thing.'" Not because of some high-minded but too-lazy-to-accomplish-her-schemes gold digger posting his private business behind his back.
Next: "A few of his daughter’s friends unfollowed her after the sneaky filming started. The photos are already out there for many people to see curtesy of MP, so I’ll document her ridiculous behavior." Perhaps. I don't discount it. But if David didn't have a problem posthumously with Gillian filming him then, and if he still doesn't have a problem with Monique filming him now-- and I know he doesn't because I've watched him play to the camera in some leaked vids others repost here or there-- it would make sense, logically, why West engaged in the same behavior then and now, on her own and with Monique. Some days he might not want to be on camera for all posterity-- indirectly implying that lightheartedly to Gillian in the above transcript-- hence the leg and feet filming.
Again, we. don't. know. If she's a monster or he's a monster, I cast them off into the abyss. But we, the public, have no actual, factual information of... anything, really, other than rumors, speculations, or opinions. What we do know is: he was fine with Gillian posting, even after being made aware of it. He's fine with West posting his apartment and their family activities. He was fine posting a pic of Miller to his own account. He seemed fine with West's boyfriend posting an intimate father-daughter hug for Bucky Dent's premiere. And he seems fine with Monique posting since then.
For every mention you have of West and her friends not engaging with Monique years ago, she most certainly does now. And you can't hide that fact behind West using her father as a leg up in the industry without bringing Tea's contacts from both entertainment and finance into the discussion. Tea who, by the way, has been more than cordial and civil in each outing and sighting with David, saying they're friends, saying they still love each other, telling him he's a good influence and father to West, etc. Even after the timeline you allege he started dating Monique. Even after the other dating timeline you allege she gave fans in a conversation somewhere. Even after he flew in and out of New York before the pandemic. Even after spending the pandemic locked down with his son.
Next: "The photos are already out there for many people to see curtesy of MP, so I’ll document her ridiculous behavior. I’m not his gf, I’ve made no vows to him. He likes to make money on voicing his feelings and opinions. While I’ll continue to comment on a public figure." 'Ridiculous behavior', you say, about an adult posting milestones or cute pictures and videos to her Instagram. Interesting. If she were trying to launch her own career-- which you and your responders have said before she would, a couple times, without anything coming to fruition (the archives don't lie)-- your argument would have a leg to stand on. But then again, David and Tea talked about explicit sex (and their sex lives) back in the day; rolled atop each other on a crowded, public beach; sold David's bottom-as-brush paintings for charity; and promoted her charitable causes during their various movie interviews... so, I would still retract half a point.
Next: "She should have the loyalty, respect, love and care to not use him for attention." Would you say he used her for attention during his performance the night before Bucky Dent, pointing at her and waiting for her response during one of his songs? Did he use her for attention during his recent stories about their private lives on recent podcasts? Did he use his children for attention on his podcasts? Did he use Tea for attention during their collaborations? Did she use him for attention to promote her friend's brand during their recent family vacation? If we broaden this out to its conclusion: do the Obamas use their children or each other for attention, setting aside their 'loyalty, respect, love, and care' for each other in order to do so? Or do they just say or post what they want within personalized limitations that are narrowed or broadened as relationships shift and grow?
Next: "He’ll hold her hand or leg in public now that his mother isn’t here to witness them. How romantic." David's stated in the past his mother didn't listen to what the talk shows said or read what the papers wrote about him. If you want to be really technical, he's also said she had dementia or Alzheimer's (can't recall which specifically) for a few years now; and that it was so advanced by the time of her death that she didn't recall one day from the next. Would she have disapproved? You bet your bottom dollar she probably did. She also would have disapproved of him being as explicit and cussy as he was for decades; and she would more than likely have disapproved of him getting tattoos; and she would have most definitely disapproved of all his youthful, adult, and older adult sexual shenanigans, innocent or not. That didn't stop him before.
To be even more technical, most of the pap shots of DD and MP are taken at Soho House and Erewhon Market, two celebrity hotspots that managers, publicists, and paparazzi use to prearrange meetups in order to get the celebrity's name out there in advance of the next promotional tour, as well as merge their interests to get a split of the photograph proceeds. (I covered the topic here.) All David has to do is show up--ultimately, they're business strolls. He's annoyed (even angry) at having to do it; but he still holds up his end of the celebrity bargain 'cuz that's Hollywood, baby. And he's always brought Monique along with him.
Next: "He pushed her hand away when people were looking before...." Continuing on my train of thought. The other times he and Monique were caught unawares by paparazzi (his band at the airport, Vancouver, the beach, etc.) were during the Revival hype. Monique didn't try to snuggle up, grab his hand, or get too close most incidences. The hand move you're referring to was, I believe, after a live show when he was super-duper keyed up, wanted to leave, and was followed (semi-circled?) by fans. Yeah, it could be a sign he wanted physical distance from her... except he acted out the exact same routine with his kids whenever they got papped or surrounded by a crowd: walking ahead of them, retreating into himself, not touching anyone unless they were feeling insecure or scared, looking serious or annoyed unless talked to or joked with. It was a clear pattern to me, so I guess I'm surprised you didn't notice it, too.
Next: "...and made her hold his arm like he was her gramps." I have an older couple-- 70s-- who have been married forever and still hold each other's arm like that, preferring to keep any romantic overtures tightly under wraps. I knew other older couples who would think that's rubbish or insanity. I know other young couples who are physically affectionate in public; and others who, again, would prefer to keep contact to a minimum. I've seen, read, or heard of every shade in-between; and I know you have, too. Maybe David likes how it makes him feel. Maybe Monique likes reenacting Austenian period dramas. Of all the accusations brought against them, this amuses me the most.
To be even more technical, I can pull up preeeeetty much all the paparazzi pics between he and MP in chronological (not release, they were reshuffled) order to prove that he initiated more contact with MP than the other way around, stemming as far back as 2017.
Next: "They didn’t have to have contact with Tim once he started dating their mother but they always did." First of all, I challenge you to prove that assertion. Second of all... why is that the focus of your question? Why did or didn't they have to? That's an assumption equal to the kids having no contact at all with MP for years. We don't know.
Tim said on a podcast that he and Tea shared a trailer to catch a nap early on in their relationship. Their coworkers suspected they were dating the entire first season, long before they announced it publicly (five-six months later around Christmas.) Tea and David previously married each other within eight weeks. Tea moves fast. We don't know how fast; but we do know one source alleged she and Tim were an item since summer (July) of 2014. David then filed for divorce in August, citing an "irretrievable breakdown of the marriage" (meaning Tea was ready to move on, that's her prerogative); and she and Tim spent Season 1 fake kissing but looked like they were "really kissing", according to an onset actor friend. All this to say, pretty sure Madam Secretary's pilot filmed in May; and if she and Tim were "on" by July, etc., it stands to reason she moves at the same pace as she did with her first husband; then David; then (presumably) Tim. Meaning, we don't know how much contact the kids had with Tim; but it was probably, likely, a lot. Monique, meanwhile, lived primarily in California; and she and the kids had separate worlds, we assume, until West graduated and started forming her own relationship behind the scenes. Miller seems to have followed suit; and the rest is history. All of those are provable facts because we have what David and Tea have said about and done with each other; what Tea and Tim have said about each other; what observers have confirmed or denied on all angles of the situation; and what the kids were doing then and doing now.
Next: "She smoked, loved red meat, wasn’t a gym rat etc. It’s just a little thing, not marriage ending but people fair better the more similar their habits." Your previous implication in the comments of our last chat here was that they wouldn't have lasted long because David couldn't mold Tea into the woman HE wanted. You assume he cheated, cheated, cheated until rehab, then cheated, cheated, cheated some more until their second and final breakup (despite the fact sources from her side said the final dissolution was due to her love not being the same as pre-rehab, not that he'd kept acting reprehensibly), then hooked up with a 19-year-old mercenary social climber that, somehow, waited two years before accidentally leaking where she and her boyfriend would be working out (in a reply to the owners of the Instagram gym they would be going to... which means someone had to have been stalking who she was talking to in order to find that information, hm) so he could no longer hide her away like a dirty secret. Those aspects of Tea were brought up to subtly back your larger point, which was to lay the blame at David's feet one way or another. If he deserves it, lay it there. But prove that he deserves it.
Next: "MP is at his beck and call, she will also twin him without hesitation." MP at his beck and call? ...Or maybe she's down to fly free to any cool new location, down to fly wherever he is because he's her boyfriend and she loves him, down to enjoy a financial freedom we mortals could only dream of having, etc., etc.? Assumptions on all sides; and, again, no proof.
Next: "They didn’t follow each other before because they didn’t interact in real life either. She had to leave when they were visiting up until 2022 and 2023. They didn’t have to have contact with Tim once he started dating their mother but they always did." Never denied that was the case. Still don't buy there was some grand conspiracy happening behind the scenes to keep the kids away from the disgusting age gap relationship and the dastardly, evil machinations MP was concocting on her evil Instagram account. I need hard proof before I believe assumptions.
Next: "Regarding Téa you are assuming she must be ok with MP because she’s good with D but I’m pointing out that she admitted she still wanted to strangle him sometimes for the things he does on a national television show" I never said Tea was okay with MP, just that she's more than okay with David despite his relationship.
Also, Tea's throttle comment disproves your angle, actually. Might as well throw it in here because that's a point you've not let go.
Tea's comment with full context:
In fact, the exes are on very amicable terms and talk almost every day, they even shared a rental home with all of their family over the Christmas period. But this doesn't mean the pair's current relationship is always smooth sailing. “On occasion, I want to throttle him,” she said of her former hubby. "But in any real relationship with someone you love, that’s true.”
Tea's quote the previous year, fresh from divorce:
"Listen, David gave me the two greatest gifts on the planet; I don't know how I could ever hate him. We've always loved each other, and we adore these kids," the 'Jurassic Park 3' actress said of her children, Kyd Miller, 12, and Madelaine West, 15. "I'm not playing stupid-I understand feelings can get hurt and things can get icky. We've had our moments like that. But these kids are too important, and he feels the same way. I know it," she continued. "He's a good guy."
Next: "Of course MP showed everyone the second she first hung out with both of them to no one’s surprise." This doesn't hold up in court, either, because West and her boyfriend gushed over MP all summer. West would have complained to her mom or dad if she felt uncomfortable with the video posted; and neither parent have would let that happen again. Furthermore, guess who was relaxed, smiling, and engaging with the camera, other than Monique? West. Guess who hugged up on Monique while her dad and Ben Stiller celebrated Bucky Dent's release with a performance? West. Guess who gave Monique a happy Happy Birthday message? West. Guess who attended a Taylor Swift concert with Monique? West. Guess who went with her to London to, as you say, "babysit" Monique? West. Guess who celebrated her birthday in New York with, you assume, Monique? West. Guess who'll be elsewhere with Monique in future? Probably West.
Next: "What are you taking about fixing things because of what’s written about her? She made fun of people for saying her friend was her boyfriend because they were disgusted by thought of David dating her and didn’t want to believe she was for real. So that was proof she was reading a few tumblrs when her name was first revealed." Logical inference but incomplete reasoning, I believe. David knows exactly what was said about his House of D movie; David knows what everyone was saying and has said about him during his rehab, reunion, and divorce; Tea knows what might be said and forbids Tim to talk about her in interviews; I know and you know what is being said about each other, which is why we're here (but at least I'll respond to you properly with a reblog or @); and Monique knows what people say about her because she possibly Googled herself or, I don't know, took a look at the vitriol in her comments section-- a few of which you've reposted in the past so even I got to see them. Lovely times. Again, no definitive proof.
Next: "How am I supposed to know if she’s read my blog? But what a dedicated reader you are." Thank you, I'll take that as a compliment instead of a barb. I began poking around your archives right around the time you made a post trying to debunk my David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson seasonal palette posts. (If you're trying to put me off, consider that you brought up our difference of opinion once again in the midst of an entirely separate talk about Monique and David's relationship.) You didn't have the curtesy to @ me then (and now); but I started scrolling while waiting for you to respond, came across a host of information, and decided to come back later to iron out some details. Needless to say, you can't passive-aggressively point a finger at me when your posts are supposed to be public to begin with, not even coyly private like you claim Monique's Instagram account is. One pointing forward, three pointing back, after all.
While we're on the topic, I also caught a lie you told during our previous conversation. Back in 2019? you put a cryptic message saying you didn't believe David and West were close because of Monique; and when West posted the next day for Father's Day, you followed up with another cryptic post hinting MP was reading her Tumblr detractors; and when another user called you out for that, you denied, denied, denied that was your intent; and then you confirmed that that had been your intent to me (in essence, restating that you believe MP keeps up with her anti Tumblr accounts and pressures DD's kids through him to post nice family tributes so they'll cover for her manipulative tactics actively destroying everyone's hunky dory life.) It's the same train of thought as "Gillovny is married"; except your theories are couched with half facts instead of pure insanity.
Next: "She’s never looked anorexic to me so thin yes but not too thin. D was only shockingly thin after Téa left him for good in 2011. My criticism has alway been to question the men in her life and her surroundings pushing her to get plastic surgery and to over exercise which made her much slimmer than she was before. Is that constructive enough?" Yes, actually; because this ties beautifully into my next point about your warfare tactics.
Indirect aggression is a form of aggression that hides behind "my opinion" or "my two cents" to bully others without receiving backlash. While it can be used in sexually competitive environments (in same sex bullying, for example), it mainly extends to interpersonal groups, families, and anonymous online forums. To quote National Library of Medicine: "According to Björkqvist [15], females prefer to use indirect aggression over direct aggression (i.e. verbal and physical aggression) because this form of aggression maximizes the harm inflicted on the victim while minimizing the personal danger involved. The risk to the perpetrator is lower because he/she often remains anonymous, thereby avoiding a counterattack. As well, indirect aggression harms others in such a socially skilled manner that the aggressor can also make it appear as if there was ‘no intention to hurt at all’." I recommend reading the study: it has a few fascinating things to say about perceived threats and thinness, as well.
The study continues: "Indirect aggression is circuitous in nature and entails actions such as getting others to dislike a person, excluding peers from the group, giving someone the ‘silent treatment’, purposefully divulging secrets to others, and the use of derisive body and facial gestures to make another feel self-conscious." While I can't see your face while typing out a post, your words do a sufficient enough job: "When has she ever been stunning honestly? She’s comparable to Perry Reeves and Suzanne Lanza. Average, a little masculine, thin and no sagging. The face doesn’t matter to men like David, nor intellect."
Another quote from a study published on PubMed Central: "In indirect aggression, the aggressor often uses others in the social group to harm the target and may avoid direct confrontation, whereas in direct aggression, the aggressor either physically or verbally confronts the target." Examples? Posting one's opinions about another person indirectly to their blog by not, say, tagging or addressing the 'opposition' directly, leaving them to be told about it or stumble onto it later before they can defend themselves... that might, perhaps, fit the bill. As would calling David and Monique names; then, when given pushback, telling detractors they don't need to care about your opinions, anyway. (For the record, I don't. Just found it fascinating to study the oh so subtle shifts of your narrative back and forth. That compliment's a freebie, by the way-- I try to hand out at least one in each negatively bent post.)
Don't get me wrong: if Monique were a provably bad person, I'd dust off my hands and let you have at. But for all your opinions, you have very few facts; and the mess-ups, flubs, or ill-thought actions on MP's part you have mentioned are so disparate and scattered-- and rarely repeated-- that they look less like condemning incidents and more like overblown reactions to mundane or innocent mistakes.
And before you write off my points by claiming I'm claiming you're jealous of Monique or some such nonsense, one of the above studies openly acknowledges that indirect aggression is not built on the premise of intrasexual competition strategy: "...developmental psychologists have tended to not conceptualize females' use of indirect aggression as an intrasexual competition strategy."
Next: "Again with the whataboutism." Art thou 'Whataboutism'?
Next: "So you were at the after party to see people’s reactions and parties where D’s been drunk?" No, and neither were you. You were also not at David's apartment when Monique and the kids might or might not have been there; you were also not in the room when David and Tea and the kids discussed Tim or Monique; and you were also not in either Monique's or David's head during the posts, blocks, unfollows, refollows, etc. decisions that were made. I merely commented on the fact that you have brought up his drinking before events in in the past, your reactions to it, others on here's reactions to it, and David's circle of friends, and what I do and don't know of said friends' behavior in the past.
Next: "D and T were inappropriate but consensual. PM pulled G’s bikini bottom down when she was trying to close the umbrella and I slammed him for that too. She was humiliated and embarrassed when the pictures were released." Conflation. David and Tea were surrounded by people in both instances, knew others could see them, and didn't care, inappropriate or not. Peter Morgan and Gillian were on a private vacation; and their privacy was infringed on by the paparazzi and media. For all the negative talk that came out of that incident, not one person stated that G was unwilling, visibly uncomfortable, or angry at Peter Morgan for doing so; only that she was "humiliated and embarrassed" after the fact. The problem in BOTH situations is that PM and MP were groping their partners in what they took for granted as private situations-- I have a casual understanding of David's friends and wouldn't be surprised if they didn't care about her or his antics in the long run-- and were filmed without any parties' consent.
Next: "D did not know what MP was doing, he almost spilled his drink jumping back away from her and he did not look like he enjoyed that trick in a room full of strangers." I saw the video a couple times. Did you not catch his smirk once he realized she wasn't trying to tickle his stomach but was doing a game to end up at his junk? It wasn't a polite one, either. If she had intentionally crossed a boundary and made him uncomfortable, I condone that behavior.
Next: "Defending that kind of public humiliation is repugnant." That's a lie, and you know it. Not once in our conversation have I taken the position of condoning, endorsing, or rug sweeping manipulative, abusive, coercive, or other boundary stomping behaviors. They are repugnant to me; and though being called 'repugnant' doesn't make a dent because you have no proof to back up your claim. And, frankly, it speaks to your character that you would try to blacken mine.
Next: "I find it tasteless that you don’t really care what KF did to those young people as long as your golden boy comes out looking alright."
Excuse you, that is a lie and slander.
In the comments of our previous conversation, I stated over and over he was a pimp. He should absolutely rot for what he's done. But you assume that Monique is just as guilty: benefiting from a business relationship with him, sweeping his treatment of other girls under the rug, using a victim's story to score back pats for herself. The reality is, the victim sided with Monique, both when MP supported her in the comments and when MP posted her own Instagram story sharing she'd been "there" before. Foregoing the obvious conclusion, you posted their first back and forth with other comments tearing Monique apart as the secret villain in this tragic story. That's disgusting, in my opinion. I tried to understand why you got to that conclusion; but if not only her friends, not only her coworkers, but the victim HERSELF is standing by Monique, then it is not the time to vindictively insinuate she exercised the same mean, grasping, oily tactics as her former boss. Further, that she was exploiting someone else's tragedy and trauma for her own gain.
Next: "She can be immature and also be a user who uses situations to her advantage." To quote you once again: that's a lie. Prove it. You can't. You can only assume what her intent, motives, and actions are based on your inference of her character.
Next: "...the old greasy celebrity rocker KR was trying to push on them." You can't prove that; and until you can, I can sit here and say it's a lie. It's your inference against mine.
Next: "She did not say she was mistreated by her boss." I never said her boss mistreated her. I never even got that indication from the post you spread around. She related to her coworker's experience through her personal one. Just because KR was an absolute monster to other girls doesn't mean he was a monster to all of them: monsters, abusers, and manipulators pick on the weakest person who has no one to stand behind and back them up. Her father, for instance, would have been a not insignificant buffer. He's well-connected in California, or so you imply by saying he's met David before. And it stands to reason he would be, supplement and wellness culture being what it is in the Golden State.
Next: "According to you MP was an adult and mature enough so she should have know what those special favors from the boss looked like to everyone else." Let's not get into the "his family and friends should have known Ted Bundy was a horrible person" of it all. No one knows what they're not aware of. I have a close, close family member who grew up adoring an abuser because he'd never abused her; yet was horrified and had to process the fact her other sibling was being used for everything short of penetration. To quote a good ol' Aslan meme: "Do not cite the deep magic to me, Witch! I was there when it was written."
Next: "She wrote a short perfunctory show of support for damage control and went back to thanking her lucky stars she now has an easy life of privilege living in a multi-million dollar Malibu home by the ocean thanks to her boss at SLO." First: prove it. You can't with any degree of fact. Second: I'd be thanking my lucky stars, too. So would you. So does everyone who's been in a tangential situation to an abuser and escaped unscathed-- so unscathed that they didn't even know the boss was perpetuating abuse. And that can at least be proven because, as you say, MP's boyfriend was still buying from that shop days before everything broke out; and she publicly empathized with and received empathy from the victim right after. Has the victim made a scathing comment calling out Monique later? Nope. Bet they're still on good terms, too.
Next: "What else does a very rich 54 year old man want from a 21 year old but lots of sex and an easy relationship with someone who doesn’t know any better?" Lots of sex, an easy relationship free of the complicated dynamics of children from other relationships, and someone to love and love him. Seems logical to me. What is unacceptable in age gap relationships are the predators who aim for 21-year-olds (or 19-year-olds, as you posit) because they pull women their age and can't aim lower; and who lock 'em down and knock 'em up as quickly as possible so they can't escape. Or those who say "yeah, sure, I'll marry you" while dragging their feet until the girl (as they see her) gives up and stays or gets up and leaves. If the latter, they start fresh with another young woman who might not see through their routine bag of tricks. David, for all his faults, has stated his intentions up front and publicly: he's not marrying again. He still wears the ring tattoo from his previous relationship. He relived the trauma of a broken home through his own actions. He still can't dwell on the pain his kids went through during that time. Unless he decides to change his mind, Monique's outta luck. Yet, I don't believe she cares as much as you do if they do get married or not. Certainly not as far as either of us can prove, anyway. By the way, Tea and Tim haven't married yet, either; and they've been together provably longer than Monique and David.
Next: "She was male celebrity obsessed, younger but she went with the one who came into the shop and showed interest." Prove it. You can't. Let's say that's the case: she would've hopped to a new person long before now. David's got friends, she's gone to his parties, she's met his people. Opportunists don't sit long with a second option when they get an opportunity to grab for their first. I read your old posts about her Twitter/Instagram follows; but none of you take into account if she was following other people and pruned those people out as her interests changed. You also can't prove when she followed those accounts: the next day after she opened her account? A month after? A year after? I have accounts open I've never used; I have family and friends that do, as well. Let's say she opened it right away and began using it: again, when did she follow those accounts? Were those celebrities part of a collective that her boss or coworkers said came into the shop? Did she prune out the others after seeing them in person? Why? Because you assume other celebrities are immune to her masterfully unskilled manipulation, but David wasn't?
Next" "You’ll defend anything adjacent to D."
That's a lie.
Prove it. He had to go into a sex addiction program because he hurt his wife and kids. He talks about saving the planet yet doesn't take more than bare minimum actionable steps himself. (What he does in his personal life is of no concern to me; but it is hypocritical of him.) If he backs up Chris Carter against Gillian in the Revival controversy, I will lose a qualitative amount of respect for him (because there is actual, factual proof of wrongdoing on Chris's part to his longtime friend and mother of his goddaughter.) He has blind spots, faults, weaknesses, and failures like any other person.
Next: "I see a lot of arguments that do not have anything to back it up, like he probably acted inappropriately while drunk at a party before and so what?" No, my comment was even you have picked at DD for drinking before his shows. That even he has probably acted on impulse before or during a party. That even he didn't seem too bothered after he realized MP wasn't tickling him. That his expression changed when he saw someone filming their interaction. I also pointed out his and Tea's post-rehab reconciliation shenanigans of equal and greater caliber (having a jolly time at a public ballgame and rolling on top of each around other beachgoers.) I also pointed out that GA had a Portofino moment. Would I grab my boyfriend's junk if we were in public? No. But David did with Tea. The only difference between those situations was DD and T had the power of denial on their side while MP was not afforded that luxury. You called her behavior trashy; but posting someone's junk grab to the internet without their consent is trashier to me.
Next: "Disturbingly, that’s what seems to give her self-worth." Prove it, with testimony and evidence other than assumptions you and other Tumblr, Instagram, or Twitter jockeys assume and interpret. Give me a firsthand witness of her behavior. Give me a former friend or a colleague. Give me a family member. Give me someone other than people on Twitter being blocked by DD's account and assuming it's her. Further, give me proof what they were saying before they were blocked: I don't give mercy to people being snide, snarky, or vile and boohooing about it later. You don't, either, so I'm sure you'll respect that quality.
Next: "Evidence shows that chiropractic adjustments do more to harm than help...."
That's a lie, and a pretty brazen one.
WebMD, MayoClinic, Medical News Today, healthline, and more medical websites and journals have articles promoting chiropractic methods, as well as the warning signs like any other medical procedure. The only disclaimer they put up was that chiropractic adjustments haven't shown a conclusive improvement in athletic achievement.
One of their articles state: "All chiropractors must earn a postgraduate degree (DC), taking up to 4 years to complete, and are required 90 semester hours of undergraduate coursework, and some programs require a bachelor's degree. All states also require chiropractors to be licensed." And all medical doctors and nurses are required to be licensed if they practice medicine; yet, bad apples slip through the cracks. It's slander to paint me as a blackhearted, single-minded, "let them eat cake" person towards victims of possible scammers, manipulators, and frauds just because I don't fall in line with your viewpoint. Further, you indirectly lump me in with your public statements about her "snake oil salesman" father without having any proof whatsoever that chiropractic practice is detrimental other than a few studies-- which I hope you didn't lie about looking up, too-- that the medical community doesn't even stand behind, while using them as your sword and shield. All because you didn't have concrete proof against Monique's father, all because Monique is dating David, all because you don't like their relationship.
More quotes and linked studies from healthline: "For example, in a 2015 study, researchers found that a group of 544 people in chiropractic care reported a high level of satisfaction. ...A 2016 study found that the Cobb angle in a group of five children with scoliosis improved after 8 weeks of chiropractic treatment. Noticeable improvements were seen after 4 weeks of treatment. ...A 2017 case study examined the effect of chiropractic treatment on a 27-year-old woman suffering from back pain, neck pain, and headaches caused by hyperkyphosis posture." They even provide guidelines to find a chiropractor-- "Ask for recommendations from your doctor, physical therapist, or other healthcare provider." And-- "Ask your friends, coworkers, or family members if they have any recommendations."
Next: "Evidence shows that chiropractic adjustments do more to harm than help, but as long as people feel they work everything is hunky-dory?" Prove it. I have genetic backproblems riddling the maternal side of my family; and my great grandmother, a nurse, and her daughter, my grandmother, both had their spines slowly realigned over time with chiropractic procedures. From an almost noticeable hunch to an almost straight line.
Next: "It alarming that you don’t care about real harm being done to people’s spines because it’s D’s gf’s father providing the service?" I also have a maternal family member who suffers from severe back pain every day but can't afford treatment where she lives. You know how I help? Reflexology. Every time, it takes her back from a ~8/10 to almost nothing-- and this from a woman hypersensitive to her body's workings and with an incredible pain tolerance. And yet, I'd be the first person to sign her up for surgery if I could. I regularly push her to seek medical attention for the most minor inconveniences.
CONCLUSION
I'm sorry to say that you are either: A. blinded by my lack of agreement into misinterpreting my words to fit your own narrative-- which is really probable, actually-- or B. willfully telling lies, to yourself or others, because it helps you feel like you've come off on top of an argument.
I'm not interested in creating a rift or a war. I'm also not interested in lies, slander, gossip, and bullying disguised as "this is my opinion."
You can attest I've been nothing but kind, overly so, in the past; and that I didn't ever strike out unless you struck first-- and even then, only to mimic your words or phrases back to you.
I do not respect your opinions: they are baseless and poisonous.
I do not respect your tactics: they are beneath you and I.
I do not respect your lies and slander: that is a given.
Fare thee well. I'm sure we shall speak again.
#iwantapenguin#drama#skip if you don't want to read a breakdown of lies and slander XDDD#this has devolved from a civil discussion to a slander campaign#no chiropractic measures are not anti-science: even WebMD/healthline/Mayo Clinic promotes them#no I do not stand behind all age gap relationships#no I don't believe David is faultless#no David is not my golden boy#no I do not believe in your assumptions because I've tracked all of them to their starting points and they mostly contradict each other#or are based on anons or blind items that ALSO contradict your opinions#yes West is a nepo baby but no she is not friends with MP to get jobs from her dad when she can also get contacts from her mom#who has long-standing connections in the financial/wealthy/high society money class as well as entertainment#no I do not repugnantly defend public humiliation#(I pulled up exact quotes to prove my points below:)#no MP doesn't post behind DD's back and no DD wasn't uncomfortable just because he wasn't aware of it#no Tea does not want to strangle him because of Monique#no MP isn't exploiting the victim of a pimp and groomer just because she worked at his shop (like... y'know... the victim)#yes I do care about victims who are duped and deceived by snake oil salesmen#yes this post is long. Had a lot to respond to; and a lot to disprove
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I Won't Forget
Soap x Civilian!Reader
Your last night with Johnny...
SFW, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Established Relationship, Long Distance Relationships, Mutual Break-Ups, Failed Romance, A bit mopey, but not toxic, hopefully not OOC, Scarcely Proofread, Drabble
I felt like writing angst, but not heavy angst. Here's the drabble that thought concocted.
Masterlist
Johnny took the long way back home from the park. He hadn't commented on anything in particular, beyond what played on the radio, and you didn't mind the silences, frequent as they came tonight.
A choice lyric sent him into a small rant at some point, each new comment springing a giggle out of you. It warmed him each time to hear, though he wouldn't say so in words, even as he attempted to. Johnny feared he could never find the right way to express himself to you, but it never kept him from trying. He always was adaptive to anyone and anything, it seems. Anytime the world allowed for it.
The silence returned after a few more roads had passed, as though a sudden realization had dawned on you both; an impending doom and growing nausea which came once more. Reality.
When this drive was over, this was it. He'd be gone for another long assignment. Another indefinite amount of time. Another handful of moments taken. And after a long talk over dinner, you both came to the mutually painful conclusion that things needed to end.
Your lives split you two apart more often than not, and it was past time for you both to move forward without one another, no matter how ambitious you both had been about things; your problems could be swept away no longer.
For the first year it hadn't been so bad -- the long evening phone calls, the gifts and letters, and that unmatched excitement from finally reuniting. It made for memories you were sure to live with until your elderly days; like falling in love all over again. Yes... it hadn't been so bad the first year.
It took him about as long to make things between you two official; a whole year of him popping in and out of your area like a short-lived dream. When he'd asked you to be his girlfriend, you could feel the hesitancy mixed into the excitement in his voice, not from a fear of rejection but rather a fear of regret. Because even then he knew that being with him wouldn't be easy. You believed you could handle it.
By the third year the phone calls grew routine, feeling more akin to a daily task you had to do rather than a want or need. And while at times you had bemoaned the interruption they caused in your schedule, selfish as it had made you feel, you'd cry yourself to sleep every night you didn't hear from him at all, wanting to go back to those five minutes he could spare you between missions.
Eventually the stretches of radio silence between your calls grew so much that you stopped noticing them after awhile. These days it feels you've been together separately more often than near one another. His calm blue eyes looked more accustomed to your phone screen than right in front of you.
And it hadn't been as though Johnny were purposefully pushing you away. There was nothing more he wanted than to just find a nice plot of land and spend the rest of his days with you.
But this other side of him, his identity before you that had been the very other core of himself, Soap... that had just been a part of him that could not be separated.
He lived for his career, and it's all he's ever known until now. Being a soldier had meant everything to him and it hadn't been something he could so easily set aside, not even for you it seems. It was the one thing he felt he'd been good at, and it brought him just as much pride.
You couldn't take him away from his life, just as he couldn't do so to you. Your life mattered too, and that included being deserving of a present love. Someone to be there for the special moments, and someone you didn't have to wait for.
So he would stay a soldier, and you would go back to your life, uninterrupted this time. So goes the end of what had otherwise been a pleasant on-and-off time between you two.
But you hadn't wanted your last memories to be this. To be you both sitting silently, sadly, in the car as he drives you home. The ultimate summary of your relationship. You hadn't wanted this ending to feel so awful if it had been something you both agreed upon.
So you turn up the car radio and you sink back into the passenger's seat with a bittersweet smile. And when a dumb joke crosses his mind, Johnny finds himself unable to keep himself from sharing, even laughing for a time or two before the joke had even come out. If you both didn't talk about the obvious, then it didn't have to mean anything right now. Let that be later, and these moments feel endless.
You hope whatever road this is, that you've hit every red light, every stop sign, and every passing pedestrian the street could throw at you. You hoped Johnny would drive five miles under the speed limit and accidentally forget a turn or two, forcing him to backtrack and restart the route once again. You would hope to stop time itself tonight and keep the sun from setting any further over these quiet streets.
It was the hope that hurt the most, knowing these wishes were impossible and out of your hands, just as life always was. But you hoped for these things regardless. If not that, what else would there be beyond everything else around you?
You loved these finite moments, and it's many sweet little trappings. They were often provided just by the cool touch of his skin on yours, or the vibrations of his voice against your living room walls. You could spend ten years apart and three minutes together, and those three minutes would be the only thing you think about for the next ten years to come.
With each light you've passed, and corner you've turned, dread slowly rises in you, knotting in your throat even as you try to keep singing along to the radio.
Johnny stopped talking as much the closer you got home; he even stopped taking quick glances your way, replaced by small sighs and silences. You always did envy his ability to remain so calm around you, unable to tell if it had been some front of his or merely a side of him that you alone brought out of him.
Your eyes look down to see his hand firmly resting over the stick-shift, and you invite your own over it, letting your fingers dance lightly over his warm skin and cup them into your palm, feeling Johnny's fingers gently squeeze over yours as he's felt you.
His blue eyes glance your way momentarily, dipping back and forth between you and the road. He always adored the way you looked in his passenger's seat, sat comfortably with your legs crossed and your body leaned in as toward him as you could be within this confined space. He could easily reach out and let his hand rest over your thigh, that simple trust bringing him peace for the entire ride. Tonight his hand felt perfectly placed in yours, having your thumb caress his rough skin, and your warmth take the coolness in his palms away.
You come across a red light, the final one before your road. A brief moment longer between you two parted ways for good.
You look over at Johnny, who looks back at you. Had it been daytime, he may have seen the tears brewing in your eyes rather than the hazy gloss the night had shaded them with instead, tinted by a crimson glow.
"When are you leaving?" You could no longer keep the question to yourself, despite knowing the detail had been trivial at this point. A small part of you just needed to know.
Johnny holds back a sigh, keeping his gaze locked on you. "...Tomorrow afternoon."
"Ah..." You look down at your lap shyly, drumming your hand lightly against your thighs. "I'm guessing you won't be able to see me one more time before you go then..."
If he could have more time, he would give it to you in a heartbeat. He would have said that to you, but something held back his tongue. Some fear he'd yet to get over which had been admitting to the desperation he'd slowly begun to feel tonight. A desperation to make the time stop, take it back... only to be followed by the discomforting realization that no matter what, you could not in fact stop time. For better or for worse.
"I'm afraid not, Bonnie..." he said. "...I'm sorry."
"It's OK," you say, though your voice is faint. "Well... do you think you can spend the night?"
Johnny knew what you were doing, or rather trying to do. He knows you're well aware that he had until the sun rises before his departure, so if you could take every last hour of that time until then, you'd search for a way, somehow. It's something he loved most about you, and found himself thinking back on at multiple points throughout the night as he'd followed you into your apartment, prepared to make himself at home for a final time in your walls.
Your couch felt a bit more cozy this time, your living room more warm. There'd been no concern as to look at the clock, your drooping eyes and slurred words telling time well enough. Neither of you can remember when the conversation ended that night, but you wouldn't forget when he took you into his arms for again, pulling you into him beneath your covers, lips locking with yours.
Wrapped in each other, you didn't want to forget his skin or scent, the taste of his lips or how each movement brought you immense pleasure. You didn't want to forget a thing.
He fell asleep before you, and you woke up that morning before him. When the sun dipped through the curtains, you'd hoped he'd sleep a bit longer. And when his eyes finally crept open, as bittersweet as it felt, you greeted him with a kiss. It was small, but it was one you would always think back to.
(._. )
#john soap mactavish x reader#soap x reader#john mactavish x reader#call of duty#modern warfare ii#call of duty modern warfare ii#mwii#mw2022#call of duty modern warfare 2#john soap mactavish#soap mw2#soap cod#john mactavish#modern warfare 3#call of duty modern warfare 3
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Pay Attention
-requested by a lovely person who i unfortunately cannot tag (limji<3) -
Genre: smut
[chan in his freeze mv outfit? YESSSSSSS]
Warning: everything is discussed before hand, so nothing here is non consensual even if it seems it is, sir kink, slight exhibitionism? Ull know what i mean, a polyamarous relationship
Word count: 2.5k
Summary: online classes can be boring but chan knows a way to keep you satisfied even if that includes other means....
Enjoy~
If you could leave this boring class you would, but you needed to pass these upcoming exams, right?
Thirty minutes into the lecture and you could hardly focus on what the professor was saying.
The only thing keeping you here was this particular professor who was teaching your college batch for two months. He had one lecture every two weeks.
He was decent, the tsundere kinda type and quite strict about attendence. Especially attendence.
On other days, you'd enjoy his sessions but today was not one of those days.
Today, you just wanted to roll into a ball and fall asleep. Chan had shooting for an individual scene, so you couldn't possibly see him before late evening.
Five minutes passed.
Five became ten.
Ten became fifteen.
Until the front door opened, revealing your older boyfriend.
Arousal pooled in the pit of your tummy when he turned around, pulling his shoes off.
Fuck, the suit really accentuated his arms and the fake scars? Along with the slicked back dirty white hair? You knew you were utterly doomed.
"Oh hello baby" he whispered, unsuccessfully trying to hide from your camera's view. You dismissed him.
Checking twice if your mic was muted, you subtly turned your head, pretending to write nonsense into your notebook, as well as started a conversation.
"How come you're still in those clothes?" this man had the audacity to laugh.
"I knew you'd like it" He teased, not even bothering to spare you a glance. The newspaper seemed a lot more important to him.
You were about to retaliate until you heard your name over the microphone. Masking on the best faux expression, you unmuted yourself.
"Have you been paying attention?" Mr Lee asked in a firm voice.
"Sorry sir, I was just noting down some points related to what you were stating" it was a spur of the moment reply and surprisingly he went back to teaching.
"Sir?" Chan mumbles from the side. You don't understand what he means.
"Isn't that title reserved for me?" He says casually. Chan stands up, walking to you until he's just out of the camera's view.
"Chan" it isn't supposed to come out so weakly. You swear it wasn't but his gaze his so strong on you. Its almost as if this was a game.
His phone began to ring and wasting no time he picked it up. In that time, you went back to paying what little attention was left to class.
Professor Lee's microphone and video was off, a very rare thing to happen. Opening the chatbox, you read the message he had sent two minutes ago.
'please revise whatever few textual questions are left, i will be back in a few minutes.'
Flipping through the pages of your textbook, you barely even realised where your boyfriend was until he was crawling on the floor.
"What are you doing"
Pressing a finger to his lips, he makes himself comfortable under medium sized desk.
"Chris no, please not now" you protested although you really wanted him. It was the fear of being caught or potentially heard by all your classmates that turned you on.
"Relax, darling. I'll be quiet, okay? I heard from a little birdie just now. They told me you look tired and need a good distraction"
Your eyes widened yet you kept quiet. His camera turned on and within minutes he went back to explain what was neatly written on his presentation slide.
Chan, on the other hand, had pulled down your shorts. Leaving you in just your panties.
Unconciously you tugged at his hair when he teased your covered slit with his tongue. Gradually sucking on your sensitive clit.
"Keep your legs open for me"
"I can't t-too much, sir"
A moan slipped past when he pushed your thighs apart, holding them there with his hands.
"Be quiet, yeah? I bet you want to be heard by Mr Lee"
Your eyes darted to the laptop screen, noticing how Mr Lee was focusing on you. An unexplainable feeling made its way to your mind.
"Class has ended, miss l/n...you're the only one here"
Almost immediately you left the online meeting, a dark blush settling on your cheeks.
Within the next couple of seconds chan's phone began to ring and you noticed a familiar name on the screen
Pulling away from you, Chan picked up the call, answering right away.
You didn't miss the way his lips were swollen, remnants of your slick all over his chin.
"Well hello there Mr Lee Minho, you're just in time"
.
.
.
Im sorry i got carried away😭
And for the people who didn't get it. minho, chan and the reader are in a relationship.
#stray kids smut#skz smut#skz imagines#stray kids imagines#stray kids drabbles#skz drabbles#lee know#bang chan smut#lee know smut#stray kids headcanons#bang chan imagines#lee know imagines#lee minho smut#stray kids
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Follow the Rules | Kuai Liang x gn!reader
『••✎••』
↳ ❝ Hi! Hope you doing okay :)
Could I request 64 “I just want to be right by your side” With Kuai Liang please?
Thanks! ❞
: ̗̀➛ attempting to have a bit of a holiday and a break with Kuai Liang proves to be far more difficult than once thought when someone interrupts.
: ̗̀➛ swearing, mild sex references (nothing explicit), brief mentions of alcohol and drugs, blood
•─────────────────★•♛•★────────────────•
It had been your idea for you and Kuai Liang to go on holiday; a small cabin in the woods near an old lake and a desolate, abandoned summer camp - it was cheap, and it was private and cosy. The cabin itself was well furnished, everything was decent except for the ugly wallpaper in the spare bedroom that looked as if it had come from the eighties - and not in a good way.
He wasn’t particularly keen on leaving his clan behind, but he was dutiful and you knew that you would never be able to make him keen on it. But it was practically idyllic, the large and open lake was surrounded by dense and thick woodland, and although it was a popular holiday destination thanks to its location, it was mostly quiet.
A few hikers passed through, often talking about an old urban legend about a boy who drowned and whose mother sought revenge; it was a stupid old tale, made up to scare little children into not wandering into the woods.
You and Kuai Liang didn’t think much of it, not really, or at least - until you called Johnny to ask about the best place to put the antenna for the television.
“Do you really not see it?” He had scoffed, putting on a scary and singsong voice as he chuckled darkly, “you’re all doomed.”
You rolled your eyes as you watched Kuai Liang try to fix the antenna; he was shirtless, showing off his many scars and his, admittedly, very nice body.
You could hardly take your eyes off of him as you held the phone to your ear and cleared your throat. “No offence, John, but I don’t really need advice right now. Not everything is one of your Hollywood films.”
“Did you forget I’ve been in slashers?” He laughed. “Don’t tell me you forgot about me playing the masked man behind the phone! I was great!”
“John. Seriously.”
“Alright, alright,” Johnny huffed. “So touchy… do you at least remember the rules?”
“What fucking rules?” You sighed, thankful for your current view of Kuai Liang.
“Rule one, avoid big houses,” he started, “those fuckers are always haunted. Rule two - make sure your phone is fully charged every day and that you always have signal. Rule three - do not split up, stay with Kuai Liang and-”
“That’s not gonna be a problem,” you hummed, admiring Kuai Liang’s back muscles as you nodded slowly in approval.
“Don’t have sex,” Johnny told you. “Ever. Don’t drink or do drugs either, and-”
“This isn’t a horror film,” you reminded him. “And if you don’t tell me how we’re meant to fix this antenna, I’m hanging up.”
“Attach it facing north,” he grumbled, disappointed. “Make sure it’s connected to the TV, too.”
“Got it,” you hummed. “Thanks, Cage.”
“One more thing!”
“What?” You sighed.
“Never, under any circumstances, say I’ll be right back.”
“Alright, Johnny,” you shook your head. “I’ll speak to you later, and, uh, I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, you-”
You hung up on him, slipping your phone into your back pocket as you cleared your throat; you were about to tell Kuai Liang what Johnny had said, when you felt an odd feeling wash over you.
A cold chill creeping up your back despite the summer heat, and the sudden urge to turn around and see if there was anything in the bushes behind you.
You furrowed your brows, feeling so exposed and vulnerable all of a sudden, although you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was just a fox or something, but when Kuai Liang returned to your side and laid his hand on the small of your back, you flinched.
“Everything alright?”
You nodded, chewing at the inside of your lip. “I dunno, I think all Johnny’s talk about slasher films got to me.”
Kuai Liang nodded, understanding as he hummed and cleared his throat. “I think I got it working - we should be able to watch X Files tonight, if you want?”
“I’d like that,” you smiled, gently kissing his cheek.
You weren’t sure why the feeling didn’t go away, even when you went back inside with him; it was like something unseen and unheard was following you, creeping in the shadows and waiting to pounce. You couldn’t settle, and even when Kuai Liang fell asleep beside you, you still felt as if something was watching; you couldn’t help it, assuming it was just a fox or something that assumed that you would feed it, and with the intention of scaring it off, you headed outside.
Amongst the thin fog was a towering figure. Tall and broad, you couldn’t make out much detail, but you could see the hockey mask clinging to their face, and immediately, you rushed back inside.
“Baby!” You all but screamed, shaking Kuai Liang. “Baby, there’s someone outside!”
Groaning, Kuai Liang yawned softly as he opened his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a cunt outside!” You nearly howled. “A cunt in a hockey mask!”
Getting up, KuaI Liang followed you outside, and when he spotted the figure as well, he took a step forward so that you were behind him, his shoulders going tense. “Go inside.”
“No,” you said quietly, shaking your head. “No.”
“Please.”
“No!” You howled. “I just want to be right by your side… even if you’re dealing with a cunt in a hockey mask.”
Kuai Liang nodded slowly, clearing his throat as he watched the towering figure slowly step forward. It wasn’t until they paused that he saw the bloodied machete, the ripped overalls, and the old and new blood splatters on the mask.
He bowed his head for just a moment. “I can handle this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me,” Kuai Liang said gently. “I have handled much worse.”
“I love you,” you were so close to whimpering, anxiety and panic taking over. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he said softly. “I love you, too… but don’t worry, I will handle this, and then we’ll get back to our little break.”
“Wait,” you grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him in for a chaste kiss. “For good luck.”
Kuai Liang smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
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