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yandere-daydreams · 9 months

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Title: Extra-dimensional.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Spot x Reader (Spider-verse).

Word Count: 6.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle-Adjacent Sex, Prolonged Stalking, Psychological Abuse, Themes of Grief, and Kidnapping.

You were starting to think that your apartment might’ve been haunted.

The science-focused part of your brain was forced to look at the evidence, to acknowledge how many well-accounted-for articles of clothing and minor keepsakes had gone missing over the past few weeks, to count how many times you’d caught shadowy figures flickering in the corner of your eye, to take stock of all possible causes and admit that, tragically, a temperamental spirit was the only remotely plausible explanation, even if you had to use the term ‘plausible’ more loosely than you’d like to. It made sense – or, it made as much sense as invoking supernatural entities could, anyway.

On the other hand, the part of your mind that paid rent every month and vacuumed twice a week really, really didn’t want your apartment to be haunted and vehemently denied that ghosts – unseen, untouchable, unsolvable ghosts – were something you’d have to deal with a down payment like yours.

Both parts of your brain could agree that leaving a fully in-tact, as-of-yet unopened bank vault would be a weird thing for a ghost to do, though.

Teeth grit, still dressed in the clothes you’d worn to the memorial, you stood with one foot planted on its overturned side and another lodged in your carpeting, the end of a crowbar you’d borrowed from your loudest downstairs neighbor lodged between the door and the wall where a badly beaten mechanism bound them together. You’d already called the cops, as little as you wanted to do with them or the quote-on-quote ‘heroes’ who’d failed to save him, but the operator had laughed you off of the line and despite the hours you’d spent buried in the deepest trenches of any search engine that would have you, the only report you could find of a bank robbery had taken place in London, on the other side of the world. You’d considered, briefly, that grief had driven you to hallucinations and this was just the first sign of an upcoming downward spiral, but that idea had been swiftly vetoed when you’d tripped over the damn thing and decided it was very much, very unfortunately real. The idea to pry it open had come a few minutes later, after deciding that you probably had a legal right to anything to investigate anything that spontaneously appeared in your living room – ghosts or no ghosts.

You heard something snap, felt the reverberation of a fracture underneath your palms, but the vault didn’t budge. The only thing that changed was your crowbar – the bent claw replaced with a jagged, broken-off tip when you managed to dislodge it from the vault. You winced, swallowing back in an agitated grown. Trial One: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. So far, the vault reigned victorious.

You tried to take a deep breath, to count to ten and tell yourself that this was no different than a failed experiment, a half-baked test that just hadn’t gone your way, but you could still hear church bells ringing in the back of your mind, still picture two empty seats at the front of the chapel – one for Dr. Octavius and the other meant for the CEO of the Alchamax, neither brave enough to show their face. You weren’t even sure why you were so angry. It could’ve been the clipped speech delivered by a company representative who’d barely known him, the closed casket, the way your coworkers could barely bring themselves to meet your eyes despite your stunted attempts at making conversation through the knot lodged in your throat. It could’ve been everything. It could’ve been something else entirely. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. There were already tears streaming down your cheeks, dripping down your chin as you pulled the crowbar back and swung it into the vault’s door. The force of the collision rattled through your body, but you steeled yourself and did it again, then again, then again, until the smooth, black metal was dented beyond any hope of repair and your crowbar was warped and misshapen. Finally, when you were panting and breathless, when your hands threatened to cramp and your shoulders ached in their sockets, you drove the blunted crowbar into the vault’s door with what was left of your quickly draining strength. In the end, your aggression was rewarded with a metallic clang, the sound of something cracking open, and then, what was left of the vault door fell open – nearly taking out one of your feet before you stumbled out of the way.

You clenched your eyes shut, forcing out a ragged exhale and re-tallying your score. Trail II: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. Although the vault put up a good fight, the crowbar’s endurance ultimately persevered. Interference from external factors and researcher’s bias will be considered later on with the assistance of a glass of wine and a mediocre romcom you’ll cry your eyes out to.

Once you’d managed to dampen the lingering heat of your grief-fueled anger, you turned your attention to the bank vault’s contents – the fruits of your labor, the results of your little experiment. You weren’t sure what you expected. Jewelry, maybe, artifacts or century-old paintings some underground dealer had to ditch in a stranger’s apartment for reasons you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Part of you, the part of you that remembered the number written across your last paycheck, couldn’t help but hope for something simple; a disorderly pile of unmarked bills that you’d count and stow away and pretend you weren’t dying to waste. That part of you wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Neatly stacked in the overturned bank vault, only slightly disrupted by your attempts to pry it open, were stacks upon stacks of neatly organized dollar bills. Or, that wasn’t quite right, actually. They were bills, but they weren’t dollars.

You took one of the bundles in your hand. English pounds – sorted by color and bound together by paper bands toting a logo you didn’t recognize. Huh.

Maybe your next call should be an international one.

By the next month, you’d escalated from a vaguely haunted apartment to a full-blown spectral presence that you just couldn’t seem to shake.

Spectral presence. You still weren’t convinced it was a real term, but you’d picked it up after a conversation with one of your coworkers (former coworker, now, you had to remind yourself, one of your former coworkers) when you both stepped out of a quickly lulling group session and you’d off-handedly mentioned your little ghost problem. In the moment, you’d laughed and shrugged and promised to let them know if you ever called an exorcist, but the phrase had stuck, resurfaced the next time you couldn’t find the threadbare t-shirt you’d been wearing for the better part of a decade and cemented itself in the forefront of your consciousness when the aforementioned shirt reappeared on your balcony, a jagged tear running from the collar to the midriff and the hems eaten away to nothing. If that didn’t count as a presence, you weren’t sure what would.

That was the first time your little ghost problem had followed you out of the house, but it wouldn’t be the last. You could practically feel it, now; constantly looming over your shoulder, constantly watching, constantly leaving little trinkets in places it knew you would be. If you could even call them that. They were more like… oddities – rings made of a kind of metal you couldn’t recognize, puzzle boxes you couldn’t seem to figure out, things that should make sense but just didn’t when you looked into them. The only one you’d been able to make sense of so far was a pair of glasses, one of the lenses sporting a hair-line fracture. You’d spent the rest of that day huddled in your closet, the door shut and the lights off. You considered that you could have a stalker, someone or something who loved you enough or hated you enough to follow you around, leaving things you didn’t want to see in places it knows you’d find them, but you didn’t know how a stalker would even start to get their hands on something like that. You didn’t know how anything of his could’ve survived that explosion, but you weren’t in a place to ask those kinds of questions, anymore.

Currently, you weren’t in a place to do much of anything. You’d spent most of the night before sleepless and huddled into yourself, and now, you were glassy-eyes and exhausted, staring down an aisle’s worth of produce blankly as you tried to ignore the chill fanning over the nape of your neck. You kept your tongue caught in your teeth, counting out the micro-seconds between one breath and another with a precision refined by years of measuring the time between stimulus and reaction, holding yourself stiff enough to drown out the unsteadiness. It’d pass, soon enough. It had to pass, eventually. You just had to—

Something brushed against the small of your back and you straightened, snapping over your shoulder and finding, predictably, nothing. You tried to write it off as just another figment of your stress-induced paranoia, a symptom of so many late nights and so little external stimulation, but any hope of calming your racing heart was torn away with you by the feeling of something settling against the curve of your shoulder-blade, then dipping lower, following the curve of your spine before sliding to your hip. It was a phantom sensation – cold and weightless, hollow and so close to intangible – but you could feel it clearly enough to recognize that it was pressing against you directly, frozen tendrils sapping the warmth from your skin without clothes to buffer its awful touch. There was something else to it, too, a sort of buzzing that you couldn’t seem to compare to anything but static. It burnt. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

If you’d been braver, you might’ve glanced down, tried to see if the fabric of reality had opened to reveal some terrible, eldritch thing, but you weren’t and it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut, to cross your arms over your chest and pray that would be enough to protect you from the thin trail of frigid, searing static slowly creeping up your side, drifting to your navel, following the curve of your chest until it was resting just underneath the base of your throat. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of. That it would hurt you, maybe, that the thing that was haunting you for months would realize it could touch you and take the next logical step. You didn’t want to die in a grocery store. You didn’t want to die at all. You didn’t want to—

“Do you mind, dude?”

The static disappeared, dissolving into the open air, and your eyes shot open, immediately finding a strung-out teenager standing next to you, awkwardly attempting to reach for something you must’ve been standing in front of. More out of reflex than anything else, you stepped back, muttering an apology under your breath before retreating out of the store entirely. You decided, when you were a block away and just starting to catch your breath, that you’d never be going back. You decided you were never going to think about what’d just happened to you again.

And, later on, when you realized that you wouldn’t be any safer at home, you decided not to think about your little haunting at all.

~ It was creeping up your spine, again.

“You’ve got more than enough experience for the position we’re offering.”

Lingering at the nape of your neck, pausing, then circling to your chest to trace over your collarbones.

“And I saw your resume, too – very impressive stuff. We’d love to have someone with your qualifications on our staff.”

It usually waited until you were alone, locked in your apartment or curled up under your sheets. It hadn’t touched you again in public since your first physical encounter – something you were thankful for and horrified by in equal measures. You didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was a conscious entity. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean if it knew what it was doing to you.

“There’s just one question. You mentioned that you were formerly employed at,” A pause, a polite smile that meant ‘depending on your answer, you might not be in my office for much longer’, “Alchemax?”

You forced yourself to smile, too, shifting slightly in your uncomfortable leather seat and hoping that would be enough to dispel the trail of frost now gliding down your chest. “Unfortunately,” you started, and your specter dipped lower, past your stomach and into the space between your thighs. You clenched your legs shut, then thought better of it and crossed them, but that did little to stop the chill now washing over your lap, fanning over the inside of your thigh. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it groping. “I wasn’t in that department, if that’s what you’re wondering. Our work was supposed to be completely theoretical. None of us knew what was really going on until – well, until everything knew.”

Your total rejection of autonomy appeased the interviewer, who rewarded your sacrifice by nodding his head and shuffling the papers on his desk before launching into some lengthy monologue about benefits and turn-over rates that you couldn’t bring yourself to concentrate on. Your crossed legs offered little protection. The entity’s touch expanded, infecting everything it contacted with that awful static and turning your skin warm, hyper-sensitive. A strange, alien weight fell onto your clit, pressing down harshly enough to earn a sudden gasp, to make you jerk forward and wrap your arms around your stomach. The interview went silent, his expression turning to one of sympathy-tinged confusion. “Oh, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just—” You tried to straighten your back, to brace yourself on the arm of your chair, but the entity dipped lower, two finger-like projections tracing down the length of your slit and you forced yourself to stand in spite of your unsteady legs. “It’s just been so humid, lately. I think I might need to step out and get something to drink—”

“Please, let me.” No, no, no. You needed to be somewhere else, to find a broom closet to hide in until this was over, but you couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain that all you wanted to do was get away from here and run farther than this entity would be able to follow you. You couldn’t say much of anything as you fell back into your seat, as your interview offered a curt apology and fled his own office before you could do the same. You might’ve thanked him, but you couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

As you feared, the entity seemed to know that you were alone. Its formerly ginger touch turned aggressive, dull fingertips (because they were fingers, you couldn’t deny it any longer, couldn’t claim this thing was as far from human as you hoped it would be) burrowing into the inside of your thigh harshly enough to bruise before pulling back and turning their attention back to your cunt, your clit. It was more than just the ghost of sensation, now – the pad of a thumb pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves and drawing loose, quick circles into your clit. Your body, senses dialed up by paranoia and defenses thinned by exhaustion, reacted instantly, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in your core as you dug your nails into the leather seat and tried to hold yourself still, tried to stop your stupid, stupid body from doing anything that’d suggest you wanted to be molested by a ghost.

You grit your teeth, to clench your thighs together, but your resistance only seemed to make it more aggressive. You felt a hand curl around your ankle and jerk your leg to the side, forcing your legs apart. It was quick to fill the empty space, three fingers pressing into your entrance as the heel of a palm continued to torture your clit. Whatever chill it carried, you were burning hot enough to balance it out, now, to leave you struggling to ignore the slick starting to dampen the inside of your thighs, the wet sounds that echoed off the blank office walls as two fingers slid into your pussy – only vaguely muffled by fabric still between you and it. Suddenly, the material of your dress-pants felt thin, transparent, and against your better judgement, you forced yourself to look toward the door. The interviewer had closed it on his way out, but it wasn’t locked. You doubted it was soundproof, either. If you were lucky, they’d be short-staffed, and no one would have a reason to pass this specific office though this specific hallway. And, if you weren’t…

You choked back a ragged groan as the fingers inside of you started to move, started to do more than just grope and tease and haunt. Rather than numb, rather than paralyze, the static seemed to tote a much, much worse side-effect. There was a sort of… buzzing vibration, a resonating tremor that made you want to lean back, go slack, and let the sensation wash over you. You couldn’t, though. Even if you forfeited the job, gave up on the idea of ever working in this industry, you knew you’d never be able to show your face in public again if someone walked in and you had to explain what was happening to you right now. That was, if you even could explain what was happening to you right now.

You caught the inside of your cheek in your teeth, biting down until you tasted blood. The digits quirked upward, rubbing against your pulsing walls before scissoring apart, stretching you open. There was no pattern to it, no method you could track and prepare yourself for. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it experimental. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it clumsy.

You could feel your face heating up, a knot of tension growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, but rather than sped up, push forward, force you further towards that inevitable ledge, the entity’s hand pulled back, rubbing one more careless pattern into your clit before falling away completely. You let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, letting one last disgusted shudder run through you before straightening your back and—

And forcing a palm over your mouth just in time for a tongue, wet and thick and cold, to run over your cunt, hauling you back to the edge just as quickly as you’d pulled away from it. It was rough, the texture too savage to be human, and so wet, the slick you’d been trying to ignore was immediately replaced with thick, freezing saliva. Even the length seemed designed to torture you – long enough to lap over your entrance and your clit in the same slow, aching stroke; to thrust into you and fill the space its fingers had left empty. Memories of a course on specialized biology resurfaced in the fog of forced pleasure and helpless confusion, something about the evolution of a giraffe’s tongue and then, in another lecture, of the practice of masturbation among dolphins as a marker of their intelligence. You’d hated that fucking class. You hated that you were thinking about it now, instead of doing anything useful.

Its tongue was wider, more flexible than its fingers had been. It didn’t have to stretch you open, no, not when it was big enough to keep you full as its tapered end curled and probed against the walls of your cunt. Two fingers pressed into your clit, drawing loose patterns while its tongue split you open so gracelessly, so brutally, it almost circled back around to feeling good. You didn’t try to stop yourself from grinding into it, anymore, letting your legs twitch and your hips buck freely as it worked, as it tore you apart with all the care of a predator gnawing at slabs of raw meat. Every scrap of your limited energy was devoted to keeping yourself quiet, to stifling the needy whimpers and little whines that managed to escape despite your best efforts to silence them. That terrible buzzing seemed to grow stronger, now intense enough to send pulsing jolts of pure electricity from your pussy to your core, and you doubled over, blunt nails biting into your own skin as that thing finally shoved you over the side and brought your body to a trembling, blinding orgasm.

It nursed you through your climax, and as the euphoria faded and the aftershocks dulled into sharp, searing pangs, you managed to speak, your voice hushed and shaking for reasons that were entirely beyond your control. “Go away,” you forced out, praying that your interviewer had left the building, that there had never been a research center here at all and you were just sitting in a condemned building crying about nothing because grief had driven you insane weeks ago and you were just too lost in your own delusions to notice. “Please, go away.”

There was a second of hesitation, a lingering chill against the inside of your thigh, and the entity chose to show its first sign of mercy and finally, finally leave – its cold tongue lapping over your cunt one more time before disappearing completely. You had a second to pull yourself into a more dignified position, another to make sure you didn’t look like someone who’s just gotten finger-fucked by a ghost in the empty office of a higher-up who had to already think you were some mad-scientist reject before the door swung open, your interviewer stepping back in and smiling at you as if nothing in the world could’ve possibly been wrong.

His eyes flickered over your hollowed expression, your wide eyes, your unsteady posture as he handed you a lukewarm bottle of water. You could only wonder why it’d taken him so long to get. “Are you…” A pause, a slight wince. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “…feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” you said, your voice hoarse, barely audible. You managed to brace yourself on the arms of your chair, pulling yourself upward and leaving the bottle forgotten in your lap. You didn’t want to drink anything. Not until your hands stopped shaking, at least.

“I think we were talking about my qualifications?”

You got the job, despite everything. They asked you to start as soon as you could, but you’d made your excuses, cited a half-remembered clause that’d come with your suspension package and got whoever was in-change of that kind of thing to hold the position for another month. You couldn’t imagine willingly stepping back into that building again, not yet. You couldn’t imagine doing much of anything, not when he still hung over your life like the smoke of a funeral pyre.

It'd been a bad idea, looking back on it. You should’ve worked harder to get yourself out of your stifling apartment. You should’ve done more to keep up with the friends you’d pushed away after the incident, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself socially isolated and alone. You should’ve left town. You should’ve fled the country.

You should’ve done everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up where you were now, facing down the thing that was currently standing in your bathroom doorway.

Your ghost, you figured – even if it’d been weeks since you genuinely thought you were only dealing with a run-of-the-mill haunting. It looked… blurry, for lack of a more creative descriptor; the white, chalky outline of a humanoid figure standing sharply out against the entirely black background. If it had a body, it was lost in the shadows of the hallway beyond, the shadows it’d created when it appeared out of nowhere and took every light bulb in your apartment out with a single pulse of extra-dimensional energy. Right now, the only source of light was the phone you were clutching in your right hand, your left similarly preoccupied, busy keeping your suddenly very, very thin towel wrapped around your torso. It probably didn’t matter. As far as you could tell, this thing didn’t have eyes, let alone genitalia.

That was what the rational, scientific part of your brain said, at least. The rest was replaying the memory of the way its hand had felt as groped at your thighs and couldn’t seem to comprehend much else.

You half-expected it to lunge at you, or rather, to creep at you, to disappear and reappear just outside of your peripheral, too far to see but close enough to sense. In the end, it only had to take a step forward, its movements slow and jerky, as if it wasn’t used to carrying its own weight just yet. Did it even weigh anything? Could you weigh something that clearly wasn’t supposed to exist? It didn’t really matter. You already knew it could touch you. You already knew it could kill you, if it wanted to.

Another step, then another. It closed the distance between you easily, coming to a stop less than arm’s length in front of you. You could see it more clearly, make out a smear of color in the void, like light catching on an oil spill. The white lines that bordered its form were moving in a way you hadn’t been able to make out from across the room, too; trembling and shaking, constantly shifting as if it was only ever a second away from falling apart entirely. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be tempted to reach out, see what happened when you made contact with it, rather than the other way around. If you weren’t so afraid, you might’ve been able to do anything.

It lifted a hand, reaching towards you with those same unnatural movements. Its fingertips brushed over your skin, painting a strip of frost across your cheek, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You couldn’t hear the buzzing, but then again, it might’ve just been a sign that you’d already gone deaf with fear.

You opened your mouth, but speech was hindered, your internal monologue limited to a never-ending mantra of ‘go away go away go away go away go away’. Eventually, you managed to spit something out, even if your voice was barely above a whisper by the time it reached your lips. “I don’t want you here.”

There was a second of stillness, of silence. You started to wonder if you’d made it angry, if it could be angry. You started to wonder if it could understand you at all.

Your makeshift flashlight wavered, sputtering a few times before giving out completely. You scrambled to turn it back on, to not be left alone in the dark with a monster, but your apartment flickered back to life and you found yourself standing alone, the entity having blinked out of reality in the time it took your eyes to adjust to the light. The only proof that it’d been there at all was your dead phone and how violently your hands were still shaking.

You considered leaving your apartment. You considered leaving the city – renting a car and driving as far as you were able to. You’d sleep in whatever shady, cheap motels would have you, start a new life across the country with only your meager savings and multiple PhDs to keep you afloat. You’d change your name. You’d get away from here, away from it. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, now that the infestation had spread to your sanctuary, too.

You took a shuddering breath, then set your phone down and let your towel fall away. You didn’t bother getting dressed before climbing into bed and curling up underneath your sheets, hoping in-vain that your comforter would be enough to hide you from any unseen voyeurs.

Some part of you must’ve already known that it wouldn’t.

You couldn’t remember waking up.

You must’ve, at some point. But, if you had, you would’ve remembered being brought here, would’ve been able to recognize the feeling of countless hands wrapping around your wrists, your ankles; countless mangled tendrils tangling around your fingers and dripping down your arms, snaking up your legs until you were entirely at its mercy. The numbers didn’t add up. There were too many hands, too many moving parts, too many things for your confusion-addled mind to keep track of. You couldn’t seem to figure out if you were suspended mid-air or if the gravity was different, if you were genuinely as weightless as you felt. That, more than anything, fueled the growing nausea twisting in the pit of your stomach, the growing sense of wrongness that threatened to tear away what little stability you had left. What little sanity you had left.

You tried to look past the awful things wrapped around you, to ground yourself with something beyond shifting colors and distorted limbs, but whatever pocket dimension you’d been dragged into didn’t offer much comfort. An expanse of white stretched on as far as you could see, only interrupted by free-floating pools of pure darkness; drops of ink spilled across an otherwise blank canvas. Occasionally, the landscape would waver, leaving you in a pure void broken up by streaks of colorless flesh that’d burn themselves into your sight and linger as phantom visions for seconds after the false reality corrected itself. Even the feeling of its skin against yours was off-putting, unsettling, lacking the warmth that would’ve accompanied the touch of anything human. Where there should’ve been comfort, there was nothing, a total absence of life and familiarity to a degree you’d never experienced before. Where there should’ve been intimacy, there was strangeness, and you’d never taken well to strangeness.

A pang of pure ache ran from your cunt to your core, a sort of numbing electricity that made your legs twitch and your body seize. Right, you’d managed to forget. It was touching you, beyond just the hands shackled around your wrists and ankles and the amorphous tendrils laving over any part of you they could reach. Two fingers kept your pussy spread open and vulnerable while a thick, tapered tendril thrust into you at the kind of idle, languid pace that was simultaneously infinitely merciful and too agonizing to put words to. That was one of the only things you could feel – the agonizing stretch, the tight knot of tension sitting in the pit of your stomach. If you’d been able to move anything beyond your eyes, you might’ve gagged. If your body had been something tangible, something real, you might’ve felt sick.

The tendril curled inside of you, and every fiber of your being seemed to wither. Struggling was pointless, but you still had to try, thrashing against your restraints, digging your nails into that obsidian flesh and praying to whichever deity would listen that it wouldn’t think to fight back. Fortunately, your blunt nails and weak thrashing didn’t seem to faze it. You weren’t sure if it knew you were there beyond some unconscious tactile sense, like a freshly triggered venus flytrap closing around its victim. You weren’t sure which was more horrific – the idea that there was some sentient, self-aware being knowingly and decisively doing this to you, or the passing thought that you’d just been caught in the mouth of some mindless creature that happened to like the way you tasted.

You decided not to think about it. You decided not to think about anything. You decided that, if you kept your mind totally blank, if you refused to count how many times you’d caught a lingering shadow in the corner of your eye or felt a stray hand brush against the small of your back, if you refused to feel its disembodied tendril filling your cunt, then none of this was happening, then you weren’t trapped in an plane of endless nothingness and you weren’t being fucked by the monster that’d been haunting you for months, now. You clenched your eyes shut and promised yourself that you couldn’t feel its dulled tip rubbing against that sensitive, softened spot inside of you, that your hips didn’t buck as another hand appeared from a puddle of kaleidoscopic ink and pressed three fingers into your abused clit, that it didn’t matter if warmth was starting to pool in your core because it couldn’t matter.

Ignoring it wasn’t an option, though. It wouldn’t let you ignore it – its pace changing, speeding up, getting rougher as you failed to stifle your reactions, failed to swallow down the little gasps and moans that slipped past your parted lips. It was almost brutal in its unyieldingness, fucking into you with enough force to bruise as you writhed and scratched and screamed. There was no remorse, no care, just its forceful affection and your body’s response. Another tendril wrapped around your midriff, another hand falling to your chest, and you let out a long, wordless cry. The entity reacted immediately, the blunt head of a tendril forcing its way past your lips and lodging itself in your throat, forcing you to gag around its bulk. It smelled like ozone – fresh and thrilling and terrible all at once. It tasted organic.

This one, mercifully, didn’t seem to want to hurt you. It seemed content to explore you, to twist around your tongue and prod at every corner of your mouth. Still, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chest as you attempted not to choke, as you tried not to let the deformed mass fucking into your cunt tear you apart. Your vision was distorted, blurred and darkened around the edges, but you forced yourself to open your eyes, to stare blankly at the new well of ink forming some indescribable distance above you. It was bigger than the others, soon interrupted by a border of white appearing in the darkness, the shape wavering, sketchy, like chalk line drawn with an unsteady hand. Eventually, you made out a shape not unlike the one you’d seen in your apartment all those weeks ago, the ghostly entity that’d barely had to lift a finger to terrify you. This one was different, though – harsher, flitting and flashing in and out of existence faster than you could comprehend. If it’d been a breath away from falling apart the last time you saw it, reality was struggling to hold itself together around it, now.

A head emerged from the darkness, then a neck, then the entity’s broad shoulders. A hand materialized, extending from the pull of darkness and reaching towards you, towards the mess of dark matter and appendages that now all-but entirely encompassed your form. Its fingertips brushed against your jaw, then cupped your cheek, it’s touch careful, ginger, cautious. As if it was trying to be gentle with you. As if it was trying to be loving.

You’re not sure what part of your exhausted mind made the connection, which piece slid into place first. You let your head lull to the side, your jaw fall limp around the tendril in your mouth. You grunted, a premature attempt to speak that it could separate from all the other meaningless, ragged sounds that’d been forced out of you by its invasive touch, and the tendril pulled back, wrapping loosely around your neck. It still took you a moment to find your voice, but you managed to spit out something nearly coherent.

“…Jonathan?”

For a moment, the hands wrapped around your limbs loosened, the tendril attempting to split you in two faltering and before going still.

Then, there was a resounding, resonating purr that seemed to emanate from every corner of the micro-dimension. When the tendril started to move again, it thrusted into you with twice the force, twice the mania. This time, you didn’t have to pretend. You were floating on air, your thoughts blank and your mind empty – your body numb and unfeeling. This time, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.

This time, you didn’t even bother to try.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderverse imagines #spiderverse #yandere spot #spot x reader #jonathan ohnn x reader #yandere jonathan ohnn #yanderecore #yancore

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just-jordie-things · 1 year

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[part three] to build a home - gojo satoru

word count: 3.6k warnings: !!manga spoilers!! swearing, jjk-verse style fighting series summary: when (y/n) (y/l/n) catches wind that the notorious sorcerer killer, toji fushiguro, has children, she makes it her personal mission to find them. the catch being she couldn't tell a soul about them- the risk of the zen'in clan learning about them was too great. keeping the secret isn't the hard part, it's lying to her friends, shoko ieiri, geto suguru, and of course gojo satoru, that she struggles with. especially when satoru has suddenly become so keen on keeping an eye on her lately.

series masterlist

[part three] : "Learning To Lie"

___

“I never thought I’d see the Gojo Satoru get soft,” Shoko’s giggling as she took a drag of her cigarette. Her shoulders shake and her eyes close as she beams at the thought. “It’s only a matter of time now until you dye that stupid hair too, huh?” She suggests, blowing out the smoke in her lungs.

Suguru’s head is thrown back in laughter, happily partaking in the tease-fest.

“I think black would be cooler. Like mine” He says.

Shoko coos and hums in agreement, looking back at Gojo as if to picture a new look in her mind.

“I’m not coloring my hair, idiots,” He mutters, turning away from them and waving a dismissive hand. “I look perfect”

Suguru snorts at how humble his best friend was.

“So you admit you’ve grown a little soft spot for our resident (y/n)?” He asks, a muse in his tone as he shares a look with Shoko.

“We’ve always been friends. I don’t know why you’re having a giggle parade over us hanging out. I hang out with you guys all the time, you think I’m in love with you?”

Shoko purses her lips, passing her cigarette to Suguru.

“Yes,” She says, decidedly. “But I think you like (y/n) better”

Satoru has to fight the urge to defend himself too much, because he knows if he argues with them too much, their suspicions will only be raised tenfold.

“She’s definitely better company than you two right now” He grumbles, leaning back against the wall.

He wasn’t even a smoker, but when Shoko and Suguru would head off for a cigarette break, more often than not he’d follow. Sometimes (y/n) would be here. And when she was, he could focus his attention on messing with her. Otherwise when it was just these two, they ganged up against him.

Speaking of-

“Where is (y/n) anyways?” Satoru asks.

Shoko and Suguru share another suggestive look, chuckling to themselves. Satoru wasn’t sure when they took such entertainment in meddling with his love life, but it was starting to irritate him. All the looks, and the giggling, it was going to drive him crazy.

“She said something about having to go to a bookstore in town,” Shoko said. “Sounded boring”

“Miss your little training buddy already?” Suguru asks.

“She went to town by herself?” Satoru frowned.

“Relax, she literally just needed a book,” Shoko says, taking her cigarette back from Suguru. “I think she’s capable of a little errand”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” He sighs. “It’s just weird that she’d go alone. We all had the day free”

“Then go hang out with her if you want” Shoko suggests.

“Yeah, then we can talk about you guys” Suguru pipes up.

They’re laughing amongst themselves again, and Satoru thinks it’s not such a bad idea. Kicking off the wall, he raises his hand in a peace sign and leaves without a word.

He can still hear their childish giggles as he walks away. ___

Breaking into the elementary school once it had closed and the staff had left for the day had been easy enough. In fact, it was probably the easiest part of her whole investigation, which was odd since it was the first actual crime (y/n) had committed.

Not that commiting said crime fazed her too much. She was doing this for the greater good after all.

The tricky part was finding what she was looking for. The filing cabinets in the administrator’s office took up an entire wall, so finding two student’s information was going to take a minute.

She raised her phone’s flashlight and quickly began to read the labels on each cabinet.

Payroll. Emergency Contacts. Lunch Schedules. Event Budgeting.

And then finally, Student Files.

With a grin, she quickly pulled open the first drawer with this label, and went flipping through the alphabetized files.

Just as she found where F was filed, her phone buzzed.

She nearly dropped it from the surprise, before she quickly silenced her ringtone, cursing whoever needed to call her right now. Didn’t they know she was trying not to get caught literally breaking and entering?

Well, no, no one did. Maybe she should have turned her phone to silent before she broke in.

Seeing that it was Satoru calling, she knew better than to decline, so with a sigh, she answered, pressing her phone between her shoulder and her ear.

“Hey!” He greeted her happily. “What’re you up to?”

She told Shoko she was shopping today. So she had to stick to her story and tell him the same thing.

“I’m in town, what’s up?” She replied, keeping it short.

“Nothing. Want company? Suguru and Shoko are being annoying and I kind of feel like avoiding them,” He tells her.

Her heart feels warm that he wanted to spend time with her, but she bites her lip and tries to find a reason why he couldn’t come see her.

“We could grab lunch. Or if you’ve already eaten we can get ice cream. Either way my treat”

(y/n) smiles to herself.

“That’s sweet, Satoru, but,” She hesitates, eyes wandering through the files in front of her. “I already ate, and I’m still looking for that pair of headphones I saw online,”

It’s quiet for a minute on his end, and she hopes she hasn’t hurt his feelings.

“But thank you for thinking of me. We can hang out tomorrow, or something, if you have time”

“Sure,” He replies, but his voice sounds off. Almost rigid. “Bye”

With that, he hangs up on her. (y/n) frowns as she pulls her phone from her ear, seeing the call end and her lock screen wallpaper light up. She can only hope that he isn’t too upset.

She drops the thought quickly, and goes back to thumbing through the file folders.

It’s a matter of seconds before she finds what she’s looking for. Fushiguro.

She snatches the file, her face split in a grin. Victory!

With great haste she flipped through every page, snapping a photo of each one. Once finished, she carefully placed everything back where she found it, slid out the window she’d so craftily unlocked when she’d broken in, closed it behind her, and left the scene.

If committing crime really was that easy, she wonders why more people don’t do it.

Maybe she’d keep that thought to herself.

As she casually slipped herself into the crowd of people, eyes glued to her phone as she studied the photos of the files she’d just stolen, she completely missed a familiar figure approaching.

“(y/n)?”

Her eyes darted up, face paling slightly, surprised that anyone had recognized her.

And there was Haibara Yu, with that infamous cheery smile and a wave as he approached her. He was in street clothes, and a small bag was held at his side.

“Yu!” Her voice came out a little louder than intended from her surprise. She cleared her throat, and hoped that he didn’t find her acting strange. “What’re you up to today?”

“Just needed to get a gift for my sister,” He said, holding up the shopping bag in his hand. “Her birthday is next weekend”

“Sweet of you,” (y/n) smiled at the gesture. “Tell her I said happy birthday”

Yu nods, and she knows that despite having never met his sister- who probably didn’t know who she was- that he would relay the message. He was a good guy like that, always putting people’s happiness first. (y/n) admired that about the second year.

“So, what are you up to?” He asks.

She knows the question isn’t meant to be interrogative, that he’s genuinely curious about her day. (y/n) bristles nonetheless.

“Just some shopping” She shrugs, trying to be as casual as she could, so as not to raise any suspicion.

Although now that she thinks about it, and sees his kind smile as he talks to her, she thinks that she could never make him suspicious of her. Yu was a grade younger than her, so it wasn’t often that they crossed paths. Only in the halls of Jujutsu Tech, or if they happened to be working out at the same time. But Yu had always made a point to talk to her, to befriend her and treat her well. She’d found it endearing, how his kindness poured out of him, even when he was running late and Kento would be pulling him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him away, he’d always bid her goodbye with the well wish of having a good day.

Thinking about it now, (y/n) wondered if he had a little crush on her, or if he was always that pleasant with everyone. She smiles warmly at the thought, either way.

“Well, uh, do you want any company?” The dark haired boy asks, his hand raising to the back of his neck nervously. “I’m all wrapped up, I don’t mind joining you, if- if you want”

For a brief moment- so fleeting the thought left as soon as it presented itself- she wondered if Gojo had sent him. After their strange phone call, she couldn’t help but notice Yu had asked the same question as Satoru after all.

She brushed off the paranoid idea quickly. Yu was too kind to be sent as a spy. Besides, she hadn’t been so shady in her excuses to Satoru to result in him sending an informer her way, she was certain.

“You’re too kind,” (y/n) flashed a dazzling smile. “But I’m just about wrapped up myself, I was just going to get something, uh, a bit private, if you don’t mind,” She feigns bashfulness as she averts her eyes after telling him her errand.

Yu’s face drops and his ears turn a light shade of pink, and (y/n) mentally applauds herself for having succeeded in making him believe her little lie.

“Oh- oh, right, of course,” The boy stammered. “Will you be long? I could wait for you, so you don’t have to walk back alone”

“That’s alright, it’s my last stop,” (y/n) says, waving a dismissive hand in front of her. “No need to worry about me”

Yu nods, tucking his hands into his pockets as he lowers his gaze, hiding the disappointment in his features.

“If you insist,” He says. “I know your friends would be upset with me if I didn’t even offer,”

You’re probably right, (y/n) thinks as she chuckles quietly.

“And I don’t need Gojo beating me up for leaving you out here alone”

“He wouldn’t do such a thing,” (y/n) says with certainty. “I’m not a stranger to Tokyo. And I can handle myself just fine,”

She begins to pass by him, patting his shoulder in a friendly manner as she does.

“Have a safe walk back” She tells him.

“Yeah. You too” Yu smiles, giving her a small wave as he walks off in the direction he was heading before he’d run into her.

(y/n) checks over her shoulder a few moments later, just to be sure that he was going back to the school, and he wasn’t following her. Her eyes scan the small crowd of people wandering the sidewalks and peeking into shops. When she doesn’t see the familiar student, her mind is at ease, and she goes back to her phone.

With the address of Megumi and Tsumiki Fushiguro’s home displayed before her, she follows her map. ___

“I saw (y/n) while I was in town” Yu mentions, picking at the box of food before him.

Kento, sat across from him at the table they shared, looked up from his own meal. This wasn’t a casual mention. It never was when he talked about (y/n). It was almost getting tiring, hearing his friend go into that dreamy voice as he shares the most meaningless interaction he’d had with the third year girl.

“That so?” He replied anyway. Might as well get it over with.

“Yeah,” Yu hummed in delight, the smile on his face was glued there. “She was shopping”

So interesting, Kento thinks bitterly, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud. Yu’s crush on the older sorcerer might have been a bit far-fetched, but he was a good friend, so if he wanted to gush about her, he’d listen.

“Surprised you didn’t stay in town with her,” Kento says instead. “Seemed like a good opportunity for one-on-one time, hm?”

“I know. I offered,” Yu sighs. “But she was- uh- kinda busy” He chuckles nervously.

Kento raises a brow, silently asking what that was all about. Yu rubs the nape of his neck.

“She said she was shopping for something private” He confesses.

Kento hums, finally turning his attention back to his lunch.

“Whatever that means”

“I didn’t ask,” Yu shrugs his shoulders. “I didn’t want to overstep”

It’s quiet for a minute as the pair nibble on their food. Yu’s mind was buzzing with thoughts of the girl he’d run into, how pretty she looked in her street clothes, how kindly she spoke and smiled. His eyes glazed over as he got lost in his thoughts. He almost didn’t hear the footsteps of a third year approaching the table.

“Hey, you gonna pass out?”

Yu blinked until his vision of reality was restored, looking up to see Gojo Satoru leaning over the table, overly-invading both Yu’s and Kento’s personal space as he grinned at the daydreaming boy.

“He’s fine,” Kento muttered, leaning back from the table a bit to put some distance between him and the overbearing Six Eyes user. “He’s just daydreaming about (y/n)”

Behind his sunglasses, Satoru blinks, his eyes twitching in the slightest. But the ridiculous grin he wore didn’t falter as he continued to stare down the younger boy.

(Had Yu seen the jealous look in the eyes of Gojo Satoru himself, he probably would have pissed his pants)

“That so?” Satoru asks. His voice was steady, almost too steady, and Yu swallows nervously, nodding his head. “Didn’t know you had a little crush on our little hex”

Curiously, Nanami eyes the way Gojo keeps his expression and demeanor remain perfectly rigid. He’d barely moved a muscle, even as he spoke, he did so through that psychotic grin. It was easy to see through this act. He wondered if Yu thought the same.

“I- I dunno if I’d call it a- a crush,” Yu stammers. “I was j-just telling Nanami that I’d run into her earlier”

That made Gojo drop the false grin on his face, his brows suddenly furrowing. Suddenly, he leaned back, out of the younger sorcerer’s personal space.

“Just now?” He asked.

Yu nodded his head in an anxious fashion, too nervous to open his mouth. Nanami had said enough on his behalf to make the white haired sorcerer all too interested in their conversation.

“In town?” Satoru clarified.

Yu nodded again.

“Y-yeah,” He stumbled over his words. “She was shopping”

I know that. Satoru’s teeth grind together to keep him from spitting out an attitude he doesn’t mean.

“Ah, Yu,” He shook his head, chuckling.

His demeanor had returned to it’s usual teasing presentation, but Yu’s anxiety remained on high alert. This whole interaction was making his stomach churn, like he’d done something wrong and he hoped Gojo wouldn’t find out. Although, he’s not very sure what mistake he had made.

“Couldn’t have been a gentleman and walked my girl home for me?”

Finally, Yu’s brain caught up with where Nanami’s was. This wasn’t anger, he realized. This was jealousy.

That was much, much worse.

Yu feared for his life.

“I- I didn’t- she was- I wasn’t trying to-”

“Mhm, of course,” Gojo nods, and reaches out to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Yu shuts his mouth instantly, his eyes wide as saucers as he stares directly at him. “Don’t worry, I’m just pulling your leg a little” Gojo chuckles.

Yu huffs out a nervous laugh himself, trying to catch his breath and slow down his rapidly beating heart.

Nanami continues to sit in silence, watching the whole display with the eyes of a hawk.

“Okay,” Yu breathes out once he’s calmed down a little inside. “She just had something private to shop for, I was trying to be, ya’know, considerate”

The twitch in Satoru’s eye was starting to get annoying. Private? He latched onto the word. First she tells Shoko she’s book shopping. Then gives him some bullshit excuse about headphones. And now Yu is here telling him a third thing that didn’t match up in his head. His finger began to tap against Yu’s shoulder, before he pulled his hand off, shoving it into his pocket.

“Of course you were, you little gentleman,” He pulls out his teasing tone. “But do me a favor, Haibara?”

“Sure?”

Before he can say anything, Geto Suguru enters the room, calling Gojo’s attention. The man turns away from Yu for a moment, holding his finger up to his friend, and then turning back to the younger sorcerer.

“Next time,” He says in a chipper tone that seemed like anything but. “Try to do the right thing, and walk her home, yeah?”

He was sure to lower his shades so that his eyes could pierce right through Yu’s soul.

Yu chokes on air, nodding his head at an aggressive speed.

“Of course. I will. I’m sorry”

Gojo claps his hand on his shoulder one more time.

“Have a good lunch, guys!” He gives the pair a friendly wave before heading back over to Suguru.

Yu’s jaw drops as he finally looks over to Nanami, fear deep in his eyes.

“Why would you tell him that?” He squeaked out. “I thought he was going to kill me!”

Nanami shrugged, taking a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully.

“How was I to know he had a thing for her?” He muttered.

Suguru had only seen a little bit of Satoru’s interaction with the second years, but he’d seen enough to know something was up.

As they walked out of the dining hall, he supposed he could indulge in a little drama.

“So, what was that about?” He mused, an eager smile on his lips. “Not like you to threaten a kid like Haibara”

“I wasn’t threatening him” Satoru brushed off the comment, adjusting his sunglasses to sit properly on his nose.

“Could’ve fooled me”

“You see (y/n) at all today?” Satoru changed the subject.

Suguru raised a brow, although his friend was ignoring his look.

“No” He replied.

The white haired sorcerer let out a huff.

“That what this is about? (y/n)?”

Satoru doesn’t say anything.

“So it is,” Suguru grins. “What is it this time? She take a liking to Haibara?”

“He saw her in town” Gojo finally gives him something to work with, but Suguru raises his brows, surprised that his little display of dominance was over something so mundane.

“Yes, well. Other people who have eyes will probably look at her,” Suguru remarks.

Satoru looks over at him with a dull glare behind his shades.

“Don’t you think you probably scared poor Haibara over nothing?”

“He said she told him she was shopping. For something private”

This explanation does nothing to give Suguru an understanding on why his friend was acting more unhinged than usual.

“You think maybe it’s time to take a break from all these missions you’ve been accepting?” He asks, half-sarcastically. “I think your head’s gettin’ a little messed up”

“She told Shoko that she was shopping for a book,” Satoru ignores the comment. “And when I called her, she told me she was shopping for headphones. Something she saw online, I guess,”

Suguru doesn’t say anything this time. He still thinks Satoru might be overreacting a bit, but clearly, he was having a full on episode over this.

“And then I find Yu, who says she was shopping for something private, and that was why she didn’t want him joining her”��

His brows are furrowed in a knot as he processes all the information he’d just shared with Suguru. It was all so strange. (y/n) wasn’t one to lie, mostly because she wasn’t very good at it. But her shady behavior today puzzled him greatly.

“Satoru,” Suguru stops in his tracks, turning to look at his friend directly. “(y/n) isn’t a liar. She sucks at it”

“Yeah, I know-”

“So do you think, maybe, she was out shopping for all of those things?” He suggests, like it’s some genius idea he’d just had. “And maybe she just wanted a little alone time? Maybe she didn’t want Haibara’s company, and that’s why she sent him away?”

“I mean, maybe, but-”

“You’re overworking your head. It’s not good for you,” Suguru chuckles. “I’m surprised it hasn’t popped right off yet”

Satoru rolls his eyes dramatically.

“I didn’t know it was a crime to be worried about a friend-”

“You’re worried about her because you’re jealous that Yu has a massive crush on her” Suguru barks out a laugh.

“You knew that?”

“Everyone knows that,” Suguru replies. “But if you’re so worried, if (y/n) returned his affections, don’t you think she would’ve done something about it by now?” He suggested. “Exactly,” He spoke again before Satoru could begrudgingly agree. “They’re just friends. So don’t go around scaring the under-classmen because you got a little jealous. It’s not a good look on you”

“Everything’s a good look on me,” Satoru cheekily clicks his tongue. “And I’m not jealous of a second year”

Suguru scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head as he turns to continue their walk.

The bastard was jealous of anyone who looked at (y/n) in any way. Yu was lucky to have his life. ___

taglist: @whats-humanity-lol@malinq-ashida@mor-pheus@bekahtaylorgriggs@pookiea@megumimind @thealchemical @pearlstiare @niallerhere @96jnie @purpleguk

message me if you want to be added to the taglist **if ur in italics tumblr wouldn't let me tag u!!**

xoxo - jordie

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru fanfiction #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo imagine #satoru gojo fanfiction #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk imagine #jjk fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction

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autisticlancemcclain · 11 months

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fic rec friday 32

welcome to the thirty-second fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

1. A Dragon’s Treasure by @wittyy-name

As heir to the kingdom, Lance always thought he knew exactly what life had in store for him. That is, until a dragon kidnaps him at the age of sixteen. Suddenly his life is a lot less parties, lessons, and castles, and a hell of a lot more barren mountains, grumpy dragons, and boredom. From heir to prize, in just one night.

So now he’s stuck living in a cave with an adolescent, grumpy dragon who doesn’t seem to want him there but still won’t let him go. Not to mention his annoying habit of defeating every suitor who tries to come rescue Lance.

As much as he hates to admit it, he’s probably going to be here for a while. So he might as well settle in and get to know this dragon named Keith.

i accidentally lied last week this one is the last one from my rereadables collection. and for good reason!! dragon beauty and the beast tbh. and wittyy-name ALWAYS nails the complicated i-love-you-and-feel-trapped-by-you, complicated relationships kind of thing. and i fckn love it so so much

2. Needle and Thread by VulpesVulpes713

Based on the prompt "kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing ". Keith tries to fix a tear in his jacket. Lance just wants some attention. The end result? Feelings.

this one is so cute they are so in love u know?? they just like to be around each other. always a fun read. vulpes is very good at klance with a crush on each other regardless of whether they’re already dating lol

3. Plans Are Overrated, Anyway by @chyeahlex16

"Lance, I-" "I know, I know," Lance said as he bustled around his nearly bare bedroom, tossing shirts out of drawers and pictures off of walls into his open suitcase on his bed. "I totally procrastinated till the last minute, just like you said! I don't need to hear the 'I told you so,' a little help packing would be nice!" "Lance-" "I bet you're already packed," he went on, oblivious to his best friend anxiously shifting in his doorway in frustration and anxiety. "Man, I can't wait until we get there-" "Lance! I have something to tell you!" Lance blinked, stilling his movements. He'd never seen his best friend so... guilty and anxious before. His brows pulled together in concern. "What's up, buddy?" "I'm not going to the Garrison with you." ~ In which I project onto Lance about things that I'm currently going through because I need to vent lol

HUNK AND LANCE HUNK AND LANCE HUNK AND LANCE. we do NOT have enough of it in this here fandom, ESPECIALLY prekerb, early relationship, and what a shame! i have always loved this fic’s exploration of their relationship and the ways they had to learn to grow into themselves, the starts and explanations for the way they were when we saw them. i love them

4. With These Hands by @azapofinspiration

Despite all the trouble they'd been through, Hunk figured everything had turned out all right. After all, he and Lance had managed to return to the castle!

Then Hunk sees the bruises and knows that things are not as good as he thought.

bro a-zap has always KILLED early season dynamics and their missing moments series is everything!! ive always needs three hundred percent more context on the mermaid episode and this fic provides not only that but also some excellent hunk & lance moments, with hurt/comfort that isnt imbalanced or infantilizing on either paladin’s part which is a low bar but awesome anyway

5. Not As Clueless by @azapofinspiration

Pidge had always thought it was strange that despite being quite observant, Lance had completely missed the fact that she was a girl. However, it seems that that wasn’t really the case.

from the same series i just mentioned! lance IS observant, thank you very much, and i loved this take and interpretation. as much as lance does have a tendency to be dense about things, he also tends to be very observant bc hes a walking dichotomy. he notices things but his conclusions are often different than what others would make, and this entire concept is nailed in like 1.5k words

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!

#lots of platonic today and hell yeah for that!!#vld #voltron #team as family #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #klance #dragon keith #prince lance #hunk & lance #lance & pidge #fic rec #fic rec friday #established klance

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amemenojaku · 3 months

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Hisami and Zanmu for 1 on that ask game!

When I started shipping it if I did: Since day 1 when I read Hisami's dialogues, like most people I believe lol. I mean, how can you see her and not start cheering for her to get what she wants... Since it's still pretty recent I can add that two lines in particular made me seriously consider it and think about it beyond 'this is nice/funny': when Hisami tells Zanmu that she doesn't have to hold back around her, and when Zanmu tells Hisami that she knew Hisami would mess up on purpose, and that she'll give her a reward anyway - both are about danmaku obviously, but it got my brain gears turning >:]

My thoughts: They've slowly but steadily been going up my favorite ships, especially for the past 2-3 months... They work well together. Obviously I'd love the ship in touhou where one of them has a big fat actual canon crush on the other one, I've been in this hole since 2010 or something so Hisami's kind of a gift... but also in general I think it's a good spin on the boss/henchman trope when the boss is some mega charismatic chessmaster who could probably get anyone they want on their knees and yet their subordinate is one of the only people they can't fully predict/control. The wild card aspect is really funny to me and I love seeing fanworks where Zanmu's like... fondly sighing at Hisami's antics.

Things done in fanworks that annoy me: I think there's too many fanworks where Zanmu looks generally uncomfortable around Hisami despite never doing so even once ingame, and also too many fanworks where Hisami harasses Zanmu, sometimes to make very early 2000s jokes in very poor taste... I won't name anyone but there's a few big yuri artists on twitter who do that and it makes me want to bash my head against the wall when they get praised for it just because their artstyle looks good..... On a more positive note there's a few people who've been creating constantly good content of this pair and I think given a year or two nature will be healing!!

Also I'm of the opinion that Zanmu's fairly tall herself, just a bit shorter than Hisami, so I'm not big on the crazy size difference stuff (funny coming from a seishin fan, I know......)

Things I look for in fanworks: MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING!!! Getting to know each other past the infatuation (in Hisami's case)/the curiosity (in Zanmu's case) in deeper ways. I promise this isn't about sex lol (I do think about that too but not here rn) I really want to see how their relationship can grow and I especially want to see Zanmu enjoying it (as a petty reaction to the stuff listed above...). In their case I think physical intimacy would be a good setting for that kind of scene where their emotional bond grows, so that's what I'd go with if I were to create something like it, but anything can work if it's done in good taste imo. And in general I want to see Zanmu answering Hisami's affections with a positive emotion... whatever it is... I'm desperate.......

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: It's difficult for me to imagine Hisami with anyone else, although I do think she'd have physical relationships with a bunch of women while her feelings for her boss are still unrequited. Zanmu on the other hand I can picture being interested in a few other characters like Reimu or other onis or even the sages, but ultimately not as something she'd commit to and take seriously. The only real endgame is still zanhisa haha

My prefered future/ending for them: Whenever Zanmu considers them close enough to tell Hisami to drop the honorifics and overly reverent language when they're alone, and whenever Hisami feels comfortable doing that would be the ideal "endpoint" for me because of all the things it implies :) I don't care if at that point they actually consider themselves in a relationship or if they just aknowledge there's something going on. Though if they do get in a relationship proper I imagine they'd be very discreet about it. Also I think Hisami should get a promotion so she can directly work as Zanmu's prefered right hand arm man. woman. her everything. her confidant. her silly rabbi

What is their favorite activity together: Probably drinking. I imagine with how old she is and hanging out with onis Hisami's built up a decent hold on alcohol, and Zanmu appreciates it. They reminisce about their respective pasts and talk about the inner workings of hell and Zanmu gets a huge ego boost from showing off her 4D chess plans and Hisami praising her for it

#thank you for sending something!! I got a few other asks for this pair and it makes me really happy haha

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uummyuu · 1 year

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im probably not the first to request this but could you do invincible united headcanons? 🫣🫣

invincible united headcanons

unironically you are the first request, so here's me going off about men who should probably be in jail but aren't for plot convenience :))

in other teams' headcanons i call them family/fandom of space nerds but these guys? nah, they only tolerate each other because they keep each other out of jail (or at least vince does).

honestly vince probably just has some sort of mafia like underground connections to keep these guys out of jail, moreover how he even got dooma OUT in the first place.

the only (somewhat) sensible guy i can see in the team is automatic but even he's kinda pushing it. like bro what kinda rage do you hold inside you to be able to throw that hard??? he and dooma are easily the guys who could actually murder someone and get away with it.

dooma's definitely a wall puncher, like his wall has several fucking holes in it from the times he goes into rages. (the team have literally learned to cage this man in his room when he's angry, barrackading the windows included, one time he escaped through them and god—)

dooma's probably taking anger management somewhere but hell it ain't working all that well, his therapist probably needs a fucking therapist.

anyways onto dingaan my sweetie <33, he's just so head empty but loyal in a misguided puppy kinda way i can't help but be endeared to him. but also the way skarra keeps bringing him into his shit is so funny because bro you KNOW dingaan of all people ain't qualified to operate a freaking crane are you insane.

i hope dingaan's happy honestly he deserves it. (probably knows skarra is kinda using him as a placeholder for his long broken friendship with shakes which bums him out a bit but he wants to be there for skarra no matter what).

anyways onto skarra, considering he's the antagonist of the show i don't really have too much of an opinion on him?? probably laments his relationship with shakes (platonically or romantically take your pick) but he's too deep into the schtick of hating him he can't get out of it now. he sees no way out for himself or even a method of how to return things to the way they used to be between them.

oh but i felt pretty bad for him in rookie season when he failed to pass for supa strikas just cause he wasn't ready to die for a couple of people he'd just met. like i dunno i thought he was reasonable for that even though the show kinda pictures it in a "he deserved it after sabotaging shakes" kinda way. alternate universe where both he AND shakes get into supa strikas where they can slowly patch up their friendship and develop a healthy relationship when?

anyways invincible united tried to hold a game night once. keyword tried. they were not invincible, nor united.

dingaan wanted to play monopoly of all games and uh, yeah. didn't end well dooma smashed the gameboard in half when he kept having to pay skarra rent. also landed in jail way too many times. they learned not to do that again, but in the first place they were never really a buddy-buddy type of team.

some players just see it as a job while the others see it as a way to flaunt themselves and prove their skill to the world. football isn't really a dream to this team, more of just a way to show off while making money.

honestly no shame there, whatever works for them and they're clearly skilled enough to have this sort of mindset. but the so-called "beautiful game" is more of a hollow reality to them. get up, practice, play football, win. do whatever it takes.

#supa strikas #supa strikas headcanons #invincible united #skarra #dooma #dingaan (my precious)#honestly these guys r just some kinda criminal sitcom waiting to happen #they're silly tho i like them #hehe #myu writes 🌸

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apocalypticavolition · 1 month

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Let's (re)Read The Dragon Reborn! Chapter 5: Nightmares Walking

Or uh, riding, since that's what my picture has. Alas. Anyway you know the drill by now I'm sure, spoilers for anything and everything under the sun in this post, especially The Wheel of Time since that's what I'm rereading.

This chapter has the Trolloc triptych because we're getting a Shadowspawn attack.

He opened his mouth to shout warning, and suddenly the door of Moiraine’s hut burst open and Lan dashed out, sword in hand and shouting, “Trollocs! Wake, for your lives! Trollocs!”

Perrin, with the magical help of an entire pack of wolves, is only ALMOST as fast to respond to a crisis as Lan. That man's real fucking badass, y'know? (But also: Perrin is fighting his powers every step of the way and Lan's got two decades of experience with his own supernatural aid. It's only a matter of time before Perrin makes Lan look like the chump.)

The Tuatha’an woman pressed her back against the log wall, a hand to her throat. The light from the burning trees showed him the pain and horror, the loathing on her face as she watched the carnage.

I was just reading some stuff iliiuan had to say on the Tuatha'an before I got into this chapter so let me just note: Leya's priorities are all out of whack here if Perrin's reliably relating her emotions. She's not keeping herself safe, she's just being judgy about violence happening in her vicinity. And it kills her.

All that mattered was that he had to reach Leya, had to get her to safety, and the Trolloc was in the way.

Perrin's desperation to do the right thing even though of course he could easily write Leya off as an inevitability (and an inconvenience until the inevitable happens to boot) is why he's a hero, you know? I'll be giving this boy the most shit out of anyone but he tries to save someone's life even though he knows he can't and that's something.

The stink of it filled his nostrils, goat-stench and sour man-sweat.

It's good to know that Trollocs produce all the scents available to them instead of just limiting themselves to one or the other. And by good I obviously mean gross, but since I read it you have to too!

She was still there, huddled in front of the hut, not more than ten paces upslope. And watching him with such a look on her face that he could barely meet her eyes.

Leya's zealotry may be a formative trauma for Perrin I think.

Suddenly Leya moved, throwing herself forward, attempting to wrap her arms around the Myrddraal’s legs.

Well that's great and all Leya but isn't restraining someone so they can't move a very light form of violence? Like good... well good may be strong, but some kind of positive adjective... effort trying to protect Perrin and all but if you tripped the Fade isn't that causing it physical harm? Where is the line for the Tuatha'an? Did she in the last moment of her life betray her own beliefs for nothing? Concerning if so.

“Fade,” Perrin said roughly, but then a different name came to him, from the wolves. Trollocs, the Twisted Ones, made during the War of the Shadow from melding men and animals, were bad enough, but the Myrddraal—. “Neverborn!” Young Bull spat.

Half the reason we don't get Rand POVs much in this book is that Perrin's stealing his TGH schtick of losing himself in his newfound powers. I think this is something of a leftover from the proto-Tam character who was going to be Jesus AND the luckiest SOB ever AND a werewolf AND probably a really good shot I guess or whatever that fourth kid was supposed to contribute. Being easily replaceable, maybe?

The urge to rush down the slope and join his brothers, join in killing the Twisted Ones, in hunting the remaining Neverborn, was strong, but a buried fragment that was still man remembered. Leya.

Perrin will of course spend this book (and the next... ten?) afraid that he might turn into a werewolf forever because of an encounter, but we see right here that this isn't a risk for him because he's always got stuff to pull him back. Leya's barely in the list of ten most recent people he talked to but he won't abandon his humanity for her sake - how much less likely is he to abandon it once he's got Faile?

He no longer thought of the greater battle. There was only the Trolloc he and the wolves—the brothers—cut off from the rest and brought down. Then there would be another, and another, and another, until none were left. None here, none anywhere.

Obviously this is a terrible viewpoint to adapt if you're trying to be the strategy guy, but since Perrin isn't that anyway and the battle isn't reliant on such things, it actually works for him here. He's also more aware of himself than he was with the Whitecloaks, showing he's developed a little with his powers even if he's afraid of them.

Young Bull threw back his head and howled with her, mourned with her. When he lowered his head, Min was staring at him. “Are you all right, Perrin?” she asked hesitantly.

Note that while Min's obviously freaked out by Perrin embracing his inner furry, she's not exactly treating him like a freak show either. Like I said, she'd probably be very supportive if she knew the details.

Frantically he walled himself off from contact with the wolves. Images seeped through, emotions, as he tried to stop them. Finally, though, he could no longer feel them, feel their pain, or their anger, or the desire to hunt the Twisted Ones, or to run. . . .

Again we can kind of see how the proto-Tam's various aspects would have tied into a central character arc, with rejecting the naturalistic wolf expression being just one more way he would have been hardening himself and just one more thing he'd need to embrace to be the full hero at the end.

The Shienarans still standing—so few—lifted their blades and joined him. “Tai’shar Manetheren! Tai’shar Andor!”

Hell, even the Shienarans aren't that judgmental since they are already following Rand around.

But when he was with the wolves, it was all so different. He did not have to worry about strangers being afraid of him just because he was big, then. There was no one thinking he was slow-witted just because he tried to be careful. Wolves knew each other even if they had never met before, and with them he was just another wolf.

Is it wrong that occasionally I think Perrin might be a little bit on the spectrum?

“A sign to confirm our faith. Even wolves came to fight for the Dragon Reborn. In the Last Battle, the Lord Dragon will summon even the beasts of the forest to fight at our sides. It is a sign for us to go forth. Only Darkfriends will fail to join us.”

Masema is of course foreshadowing his delightful nonsense, showcasing how he was still corrupted by Fain, and letting Jordan make it subtly clear that the real Last Battle will be more complicated. It's not just Darkfriends who won't be on the side of the Light, even at the very end.

Do you know what I did during the fight?” Still staring into the distance, Rand addressed the night. “Nothing! Nothing useful. At first, when I reached out for the True Source, I couldn’t touch it, couldn’t grasp it. It kept sliding away. Then, when I finally had hold of it, I was going to burn them all, burn all the Trollocs and Fades. And all I could do was set fire to some trees.”

Rand's an incredible channeler, but even he needs a teacher.

“We . . . dealt with them, Rand,” Perrin said. He shivered, thinking of all the wounded men down below. And the dead. Better that than the mountain down on top of us. “We didn’t need you.”

And likewise, in the final conflict, no one will be needing Rand to deal with the individual Shadowspawn and even if he could deal with them to keep the people alive it would be a waste of everyone's time.

There had been a man, Elyas Machera, who also could talk to wolves. Elyas ran with the wolves all the time, yet seemed able to remember he was a man. But he had never told Perrin how he did it, and Perrin had not seen him in a long time.

Sorry Perrin, but he doesn't really pull it off anywhere near well enough for your standards.

He gasped and almost dropped his axe. He could feel the skin on his back crawling, muscles writhing as they knit back together. His shoulder quivered uncontrollably, and everything blurred. Cold seared him to the bone, then deeper still. He had the impression of moving, falling, flying; he could not tell which, but he felt as if he were rushing—somewhere, somehow—at great speed, forever.

Another reminder that the best modern Aes Sedai have for healing at this point is emergency care, which works but definitely isn't the good stuff. Moiraine even tells him to eat afterward.

“Most of the wolves who were hurt made their own way to the forest,” Moiraine said, knuckling her back and stretching, “but I Healed those I could find.” Perrin gave her a sharp look, yet she seemed to be just making conversation. “Perhaps they came for their own reasons, yet we would likely all be dead without them.”

Moiraine is nice enough to try and thank Perrin subtly, but of course he's much too suspicious for any of that.

“If you could get me to Shayol Ghul now,” Rand said drowsily, “by Waygate or Portal Stone, there could be an end to it. No more dying. No more dreams. No more.”

It would obviously have a terrible ending, but a fanfic of Moiraine somehow taking sleep-deprived Rand to Shayol Ghul and just kind of hoping for the best would be hysterical. This Rand might not be as traumatized as he's going to be, but I still think assuming he'd last five minutes before agreeing to let the Dark One unmake reality is overly generous.

“That’s right,” Rand said bitterly. “I’m not to be trusted. Lews Therin Kinslayer killed everyone close to him. Maybe I’ll do the same before I am done.” “Pull yourself together, sheepherder,” Lan said harshly. “The whole world rides on your shoulders. Remember you’re a man, and do what needs to be done.”

If Perrin or Mat had tried sassing Lan like this they would have learned what their pancreas looked like once chopped in half before finishing the second sentence, so while Lan's toxic masculinity is of course only adding to the Dragonmount of psychological issues Rand's going to need to deal with, let's also reflect that it's still him going easy on his favorite boy.

Next time: Ingtar leads the crew out of Fal Dara, Rand finds out Moiraine fucked with his belongings again, and Lanf--

Wait no. Sorry. That was LAST book's chapter "The Hunt Begins". Next time we read THIS book's version, which probably has a lot less Ingtar due to his having a prior commitment. Also much less Rand on account of his running away.

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #perrin aybara #lan al'mandragoran #moiraine damodred #leya #min farshaw #loial #masema dagar #uno nomesta #rand al'thor

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niftukkun · 8 months

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=The Skydiver=

[A being of the skies, though not by nature. Stranded with broken artificial wings, you must make use of both your cleverness and swiftness to thrive.]

[Little Gods and Passing Beasts AU, aka roleswapped rain world! ;; more under the cut]

introducing the scug version of my Chasing Wind! in Gourmands campaign!! hell yeah!!!

despite their campaign being more similar to Gourmands, the Skydiver has Rivulets movement mechanics. the swift speed not the extended underwater breathing. they also have Gourmands craft mechanic, but very specifically not the. pull random stuff out of your stomach mechanic? im not calling it regurgitation im fairly certain Gourmand doesnt. vore actively alive things. just to pull them out later. anyway, i think Skydivers crafting system would be different from Gourmands. i mean thered probably be some similarities but id say Skydivers is more. spear based? have i said that Skydiver has unique spears like Spearmaster does? different kinds though, not just one type. thered be the usual bomb and electric spears but i think Skydiver should be able to make like. idk rubbish spears which deal more damage than a regular spear. flashbang or singularity spears for shits and giggles. lantern spears that can glow in the dark but dont deal extra damage? i also think Skydiver should be able to hold two spears at once or store them like Hunter can but i think spear crafting plus Rivulets speed plus being able to hold multiple spears may be. a lil much. i think it sounds fun though but also very unbalanced whoops. Skydiver has their own version of foodquest!! hell yeah!! i call it the spearquest. essentially, theres a unique recipe that calls for specific materials in a specific order, something like a rubbish spear plus a vulture mask plus. something? i havent fully thought it out but in essence Skydiver is making a new Vulture Spear (aka gliding spear, look at the picture up top its that). its the same kind of deal with gourmand if you finish the campaign without making the spear nothing really happens but if you exit the campaign with it theres some extra art and maybe the craftable spears can start appearing in other campaigns randomly? or scuppies can show up like with Gourmand but theres like no correlation there so im thinking spears.

the Skydiver has always looked to the skies, always stood on high branches to feel the winds, always looked at vultures with some measure of envy with how easily they soared through the air. they trained, started moving quicker and jumping high enough to feel the winds as they fell but it wasnt enough. they needed the skies themselves. they needed wings. they know just how to get some, always having known their creativity and cleverness and drive. they make a spear, wrapped with stiff wings and outfitted with an odd device that mimics the pinkish gasses vultures flew with. they step off a tree and put their faith not in the hands of random gods or nature itself but in themselves their hands their /wish/ and and it works. they fly. its. its addicting. fulfilling. incredible and vast and they hope never to lose this ever.

so of course, they lose it.

a wing snaps, flight thruster broken. Skydiver can only catch a glimpse of a falling vulture and a pink slugpup? before they spin spin spin and fall far from home with broken wings like a broken heart. something within them wails at the very idea of never tasting the skies again and for a moment it feels all too much for the Skydiver to bear. it doesnt matter. they pick themselves up. they did it once, they can do it again. theyll find their way to the skies once more and dance in the clouds with bliss. they just have to find their way out. far from these walls and back to their tree. maybe theyll even find the time to see whats the fuss with these so called random gods while theyre here.

for a moment, while wandering, Skydiver thought they saw another slugcat, blue and heavily scarred and moving with determined purpose. they never saw whoever that was again. Skydiver hopes that wherever they are, theyre doing okay in these vulture infested lands.

#gamble the queue #art #my art #artists on tumblr #drawing #fanart #fan art #rain world slugcat #rain world #Little Gods and Passing Beasts AU #rw LGaPB au #rain world roleswap #slugcat Skydiver #chasing wind #rw chasing wind

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somewhere-to-be · 1 year

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Insatiable - Rhys Montrose x Reader

You're a journalist covering Simon Soo's gallery opening when you meet Rhys Montrose and get a bigger story than you bargained for.

Joe Goldberg is replaced with a reader insert - I'm sorry Joe, I wanted to write Rhys working with a more willing companion. Reader also has questionable ethics because finding out the killer's identity will not be a turnoff or a red flag (later - this is just part 1).

Covering a gallery opening by the rich, for the rich was not a part of your career checklist. But Kate Galvin's galleries were too 'important' to London's snobby elite circle that it just had to be covered. Since the paper's resident art critic was out of town, someone had to attend it. That someone just happened to be you just because you had made the mistake of debating with him about how critics didn't know shit because when impressionism started as a movement, the artists were criticized as being too lazy to complete their paintings. Somehow, he thought it made you qualified enough to cover anything important in his absence. So, here you were, attending this party and seeing art that you actually didn't care enough about so you could make sure it appeared in prominently in the Culture section, letting all the plebians know what they were missing out on. In other words, a snoozefest.

You tried not to feel underdressed in your version of a black-tie attire but it was hard when you knew everyone here had outfits that probably cost more than what you would make in a year. At least there was an open bar and hey - free champagne! You picked up the flute of bubbly wine in front of you, downed it in a go, and picked up another glass. Yet another thing that was probably more expensive than anything you'll ever own.

The paintings themselves were fine but Simon Soo came across as too much of a try hard. You had even got in touch with Kate to ask if he'd want to do an interview - you were going to try to make it a good piece even if you didn't care about it - but he'd declined. Kate had been apologetic enough, she was a professional. She took down your email to send you the pictures of the art to accompany what you were writing, but even she knew it wasn't a big deal if Simon turned down interviews. He got enough publicity anyway and all of his art was going to be sold. After getting done with your 'job' quickly, jotting down a few notes in your phone of the cat paintings hanging on the walls, you looked around at who was in attendance.

You saw the usual celebrities in the crowd - Lady Phoebe with his boyfriend - the American who had opened up the knockofof SoHo House the Entertainment & Celebrity Gossip section spent way too much time talking about. But you spotted another familiar face that you hadn't expected to see here - London's favorite boy, Rhys Montrose.

You'd read his memoir, of course. Everyone had. He was too good of a writer. You'd then also listened to the audiobook with his narration and the way he told his story had mesmerized you. If he decided not to run for mayor like everyone wanted him to and never wanted to write another word again, he would make a killing as a voice actor. But you would still judge him for the name of his book. Good Man in a Cruel World. Come on. Self-important much?

"You're - " "Yes, I am." he said. He greeted you with a smile. "Enjoying the exhibit?"

Two seconds into a conversation with him where you had said one word and you knew why everyone liked him so much. It wasn't just how hot he was - and he did look better in person - but he just had an effortless charm in the way he carried himself. The way he made you think he did actually want to talk to you even though you were sure he must have been tired of meeting his fans at this point.

But when would you get this chance again? You introduced yourself and mentioned you were covering the show.

"Just a stupid fluff piece. As if the internet doesn't have enough cats, real or painted, and for free, without paying the millions for the privilege of a name attached," you finished talking and then immediately regretted everything you had just said. It wasn't a great look to talk shit about the event you were supposed to cover while you were there. Maybe you shouldn't have had that third glass of champagne. You tried to save it with an awkward laugh. "All off the record, of course."

Surprisingly enough, he chuckled. He leaned in and whispered with a conspiratorial smile, "Off the record, I agree with you. But you'll keep my name out of it, won't you? I'm just here as a friend."

"Of course," you said. People would be more interested in reading about what Lady Phoebe had worn anyway. You were relieved that your little slip-up hadn't gone wrong. If anything, he seemed to like you more because of it. Finishing the rest of the drink and very knowingly making the choice to say it that had nothing to do with the buzz you felt from being near him and not just the alcohol, you added,"Besides, you haven't done anything I'd want to write about."

"Is that a challenge?" he said, his eyes twinkling. "Nothing at all?"

You were extremely aware of his complete attention - on you, on the conversation. But you weren't sure if you were imagining it or if he really was flirting with you or if he was just indulging you. You decided to go with option one and play along.

"It's been what? Months? Almost a year? Since you published your book? You've received enough praise for it already. You can't expect it to last forever. What did The Times call your book again? Unflinching, gut-wrenching, and painful?"

"It was unflinching, painful, and humorous, actually," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets.

You smiled at him. It wasn't fair that he got to be handsome, smart, funny, and be not able to take things seriously.

"Well, there you go. You don't need any compliments from me then, do you?"

The way he looked at you, just you, it made you feel like you were the only person in the room there with him. You hated how much it made your heart speed up. You hated how well this worked.

He leaned in to add in a low voice, "I have a terribly insatiable appetite for praise."

Before you could figure out how to react to that, you spotted Gemma coming your way with the Nigerian princess in tow, presumably to talk to Rhys. "Time for me to go," you said, looking over in their direction.

Rhys followed your gaze. His smile didn't go away but it didn't reach his eyes anymore either. He didn't like them but he didn't want them to know it. "Sure you can't stay?"

"I'm sure you can fend for yourself. Unless you wanted to tell me you're running for mayor."

"Ah, I'd love to but I can't."

"You can't blame me for trying. Here's my card," you said, tucking it into the pocket of his suit. "I'd love to hear from you when you do want to tell me that. Or anything."

You slipped away quickly before you could see how that went over. You had flirted with Rhys Montrose and gave him your card. It was entirely unprofessional and it was the most exciting thing you'd ever done.

All that was left to do was eat more bite-sized appetizers until you didn't need dinner and then go back and type up the article.

Until there was a commotion. A girl - couldn't be older than early 20s - in a fur-lined jacket. She splashed red paint. And ran away as security chased after her. There was silence - a general wave of shock - followed by a few murmurs. Was this real? Was this a part of 'the act'? until Simon strode forward and picked up the paint and splashed it on the painting again.

People clapped - they were all too willing to believe this had been an orchestrated performance communicating a message. You knew Soo wasn't that deep. Across the room, you locked eyes with Rhys, who wasn't clapping along.

The crowd dispersed and you hung around, trying to see if you could find Kate for a quote on this surprising new development. There was no point even trying to get to Simon. But she seemed to have disappeared and so did the girl after having been dragged away by security in what definitely did not look like a performance.

Very curious indeed. You couldn't see Rhys either, it was disappointing that he'd left. Not that you thought anything might happen between you, it was ridiculous to think that, right? He hadn't struck you as a flirt from his memoir but there was no way there was anything more there. It was just him having a cheeky little chat. But still, who whispered things like I have a terribly insatiable appetite for praise with that look on his face and not mean something by it?

You were jolted out of your thoughts of Rhys by someone's scream. Was there more to this performance that you'd have to add to your article? As you made your way towards the direction with the others, you saw security hurry past. The doors to the exit were blocked off and soon, you discovered that there was another headline that would be about Simon Soo that would now be on the front page - the one about his murder.

#rhys montrose #rhys montrose x reader #you netflix #sorry there's no goldrose #and no joe goldberg #but i wanted to write this for myself #will post to ao3 later sometime #my writing

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cloudninetonine · 1 year

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*peace signs on in, hands you a mug of tea, refuses to elaborate* 'Sup.

Sleep deprived idea because that trailer left me too feral (plus the fact I'll probably hold on stuff for Fia, Una and Dia until I have every single lore bit of TOTK injected into my veins and that also doesn't help)

Imagining Player humming this to themselves and the Chain after every blood moon in Wild's Time, and at least Wild and Time being incredibly delighted/hysterical, specially if they heard the original lyrics:

https://youtu.be/HPRluY5YZCY

Bonus points if at any point they just end up forgetting where they were and just manage to belt out the high notes like a professional opera singer or something and it just registers to Wild and Time as a seraned or something. Or the plot twist: they hummed it at some point during Time as Mask's very bad, awful, no good three days in Termina to cope with the trauma (come on, the Termina moon is genuinely nightmare fuel if you're not an horror fan specially with the implications) or during a Blood Moon on Wild's Time, and Time still hums or sings the lyrics to this day to himself, and Wild also does whenever a blood moon happen to cope and turns out the way they're all united is not through Twilight or Player being the Guide or something, it's just through shared Moon is Haunted ™ Trauma that no one in the Chain really registers and it drives them up the wall while Wild, Player and Time are basically the shaking hands meme, specially after that gigantic blood moon in TOTK. Even more bonus points if hilariously enough the way Time or Warriors remembers Player is the Guide is because Wild and or/Player hummed that song nonchantly, and Time remembers humming it with Player as Mask or maybe playing it on the ocarina or Warriors remembers Mask and Player hummed that song together whenever they saw a full moon in the sky.

Also, Hyrule being Peter Pan is too accurate and good, and also consider: Player has their phone with them right? And it apparently has plenty of battery life? Imagine if they have the classic Disney movies downloaded, and they have Hyrule watch Peter Pan with them, just a thought, and it accidentally turns into a movie watching marathon with the Chain (I think Wind would like Moana, and imagine showing Mononoke Hime to Wild). Although they might have to explain how the moving images work as opposed to pictures like Wild's Slate take.

Something something. Sleep deprived au that came to me in a dream: Player but the longer they stay in Hyrule as the Guide and move through various time periods the more eldritch they become due to the very nature of the guide as a possible deity and/or the world loving the Guide as much as the Guide loves the LoZ world idk.

Anyway, hope you have a nice day and have fun when TOTK comes out! Sadly I do not have a Switch myself so I'll live vicariously through all people who play it!

-A Very Sleep Deprived and Awkward Summertime Musician.

Player bullying the moon has become one of my favourite Player memes at this point.

They're gotta protect their boys and just the image of them standing in front of a full moon like "I'M GONNA COME UP THERE AND BLOW YOU UP, JUST LIKE THE ASTRONAUTS SHOULD HAVE DONE DECADES AGO!!" Does it confuse the rest of them? Yes, it sure does, but they're not stopping.

Also Player mid movie pausing and just pointing to Peter Pan with Hyrule like "That's you." And he would proceeds to raid the Vet's stuff for a thimble so he can make an amazing and corny kiss joke

And for your sleep deprived au?....Wink, wink, nudge, nudge

HOPE YOU'RE WELL SUM!

#cloud answers

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yunhsuanhuang · 4 months

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LOVE SONGS IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE | YH HUANG

With apologies to A.L.

When I'm seventeen, I put a picture of Loretta Lynn in the back of my clear phone case. With the same care my best friends take in decorating trading cards of Jungkook and Jisoo, I get a pair of tweezers and my most expensive stickers, and make an afternoon out of sticking little daisies all over a glossy black-and-white printout of Loretta in the 70's. In the picture she's leaning against a tree, her dark hair long and thick, smiling at the viewer with the same unshakable confidence she's always had.

The next day, I slap my phone face-down on the cafeteria table. My friends go oh-my-god and you-actually-did-it and wait-that's-kinda-cute. We propose swapping some of our cards–I get Minho, she gets Randy– until the conversation derails to exams and teachers and the presentation that's due on Wednesday but none of us have started.

Then it's two weeks later, and when I wake up, thirteen hours after Kentucky does, I read that Loretta Lynn has passed away. A clickbait news site uses the same picture for her obituary.

Sometimes I feel like everything I love is already gone and I just don't know it yet.

so why do you like country music, my friend Alex asks me once.

Alex is American, but the South is as alien a place to him as it is to me– he grew up in suburban New Hampshire, after all, in an impossibly huge house bursting with beach-themed paraphernalia. America, to him, is Dunkin' Donuts and perfectly manicured lawns and the pale foam of the Atlantic cutting itself open over and over again against the sharpness of the rocks.

I squint at my phone. It's late, and I'm probably supposed to be asleep by now, but I'm fifteen and the year is 2020 and time stopped mattering somewhere in the middle of March. It's not like I have school tomorrow, anyway.

I type and retype my message for a while. Then, because it sounds about as good a reason as any, I say, idk i just like the fiddles

It's true. I do like the fiddles, and the steel guitar and the autoharp and the banjos too– the joyful clatter of it, the melody so much like flight. During quarantine, I spend a lot of time lying on the bedroom floor with my headphones on, blaring bluegrass at ear-destroying volumes. Maybe if I play it loud enough, if I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough, I can transport myself into the real thing: a honky-tonk with wood-panelled walls, heat and whiskey in the air, some familiar rhythm reverberating through the floorboards. Sometimes I even imagine myself there in the crowd, singing along.

–

In 1957, a song called Geisha Girl by Hank Locklin topped the country and western charts. It's about this American guy who arrives in Japan, falls in love with the titular Japanese geisha, and leaves his American wife for her. Well-trodden ground, both in art and in reality– after World War 2 ended, tens of thousands of Japanese women married American men for love, for money or for everything in between. Locklin's Geisha Girl became so popular that a song was released in reply to it–Skeeter Davis' Lost to a Geisha Girl, in which Davis takes on the persona of the man’s lover back home, scorning her fickle-hearted husband. As is common in reply songs, lyrics from the original are changed to fit the new perspective:

Locklin sings, Have you ever heard a love song that you didn't understand / when you met her in a teahouse on the island of Japan?

Davis sings: Why a love song with no meaning makes you happy, I don't know / I've lost you to a geisha girl where the ocean breezes blow.

A song you don't understand. A song with no meaning. A song in a language you don't speak. What's the difference, anyway?

In post-war Japan, a whole plethora of country music bands sprung up around the country, playing American hits for homesick soldiers: Tennessee Waltz, Lovesick Blues, Your Cheatin’ Heart.. The closer they were to the originals, the better. They'd bill themselves as the Japanese Hank Williams or John Denver or Patsy Cline. The catch? Some of these singers barely spoke English. painstakingly memorising each lyric until their L's and R's sounded just right. Yet, every Friday night they'd get up on that stage and sing songs they didn't understand about a country they'd never been to.

Just a few years ago, America had been Japan's worst enemy. But here their sons and daughters were, singing American songs, working in American jobs, marrying American men. In the present day, you could almost argue that the tables’ve turned: middle-schoolers debate anime at the cafeteria table; red-blooded blue-collar workers drive Toyotas and ride Kawasakis.

One thing that's stayed the same, though– American boys, Japanese girls. Love songs in a foreign language. Kind of a funny thing.

–

For hundreds of years, the West has been fascinated by the geisha. In Puccini’s 1904 opera Madama Butterfly, fifteen-year-old Butterfly is making her living as one when she’s bought by an American soldier named Pinkerton. He marries her, knocks her up, then ditches her in Japan while he marries an American woman. The whole time, Butterfly’s left to pine for him, and when Pinkerton returns to Japan with his wife, Butterfly stabs herself so that her son will be able to live in America with his father.

(Pinkerton, as you can probably tell, is kind of an ass.)

I keep thinking about Butterfly in that lonely, empty house in Japan, waiting for someone who didn’t love her back. I keep thinking about Alex: Alex and his horrible stupid round glasses and his old embarrassing love of Panic! at the Disco and his stupid cringe emojis, Alex who’s still the smartest person I know, Alex who was the first guy to ever pay attention to me. When I’m sixteen, I think about him almost constantly, a constant hum of obsession in the back of my head. I know I’m in love with him because that’s how all the songs go: Randy Travis declares that it’s deeper than the holler / stronger than the river; Deana Carter says it’s bittersweet / green on the vine; Keith Whitley confesses that it’s what I hear when you don’t say a thing.

Alex asks me, so what do you like about country music? And I don't know what to say to him, so I say nothing at all.

–

They read it in the tea leaves and it's written in the sand

I found love by the heart-full in a foreign distant land

–

Alex likes Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, the outlaws and the jailhouses and the pistols at the hip. My classmates like the feminist murder ballads, where they think she did it but they just can't prove it, where afterwards the girls sell Tennessee ham and strawberry jam / and they don't lose any sleep at night. I personally have a fondness for the silly and unserious: Alan Jackson extolling the virtues of grape snow cones, George Strait selling me the Golden Gate.

In the end, though, what I end up listening to most are the old songs– the really old ones, all the way back to the dawn of recording, the Golden Age of the radio. These songs, collected in the 1920s and 30s, are impressively varied in lyrical content: you’ve got the ones that are basically a soap opera stuffed into three minutes flat (Lorena, My Heart’s Tonight In Texas); the religious ones (Anchored in Love, Will the Circle Be Unbroken); the relatable ones (Give Me Your Love); the unrelatable ones (The Dying Soldier, No Depression In Heaven). What I like about them, I guess, is the familiar hiss of the vinyl, the way the lyrics are both specific and universal at once, their ability to make a time and a place that you’ve never been to before feel, inexplicably, like home.

Alex and I aren't anywhere near poor– his parents are both surgeons, and I spend my evenings trying not to fall asleep in increasingly expensive private lessons. But then again, neither were the Japanese country singers of the fifties and sixties, mainly college kids from elite families who could afford custom-made cowboy hats and genuine guitars. Hell, even the prince of Japan was said to be a country music fan in his youth. None of us have worked in the fields or in the mines, none of our parents have had to tell us here's your one chance, Fancy, don't let me down. We're the people Garth was referring to when he sang about that black-tie affair, those social graces, the ivory tower.

What does it mean to understand a song? How do you sing something and really, truly mean it?

–

When I'm sixteen, my fun fact on the first day of school is that I listen to country music. When I go out with my friends, I wear ankle-length denim skirts and lacy blouses and tie my hair in twin ponytails. I beg and beg them to listen to Loretta, to Dolly, to Patsy. In response, they buy me a Cowboy of the Month calendar and save me in their phones as "the horse girl". In one inexplicable picture that we've since lost, I've got my face in my hands, trying to hide my laughter, as my friends gleefully blast a Fox News clip about Randy Travis' drunken escapades.

So maybe my taste in music is the most interesting thing about me. What else is there? I'm not very pretty, only sometimes funny, and, to my eternal embarrassment, not good at all at being Asian. If I was smarter– fine, if I was Alex, Alex with his books and essays and critical theory– I might say that I do everything I do because I don't want to be the whitest girl in a room full of Asians (lame, boring, suck-up) but the most interesting thing in a room full of white people (exotic, rare, unique). A geisha girl, dressed in Oriental style.

Even so, I don't like to think that that's all there is to it. You can shrink the world down to words on a page, map out the complicated intersections of nations and culture and war that make up the popular imagination of America, call it pentatonic scales, the mixolydian mode. Of course there's value in that, I know– but all that stuff's a foreign language to me. You can try to explain why music sounds the way it does, but in the end you just have to hear it for yourself.

–

For a genre obsessed with authenticity, modern country music's chock-full of performers: Toby Keith singing We'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way, Hardy singing My small town is smaller than yours, Jason Aldean singing, I sit back and think about them good ol' days / The way we were raised and our southern ways.

A geisha's a performer, too, in a way. She trains her whole life to sing, to dance, to entertain. In yet another adaptation of Madama Butterfly, David Henry Hwang's play M. Butterfly, a Communist actor seduces a French man by pretending to be a woman for years. When the actor's finally caught, he's asked how he got away with it. He responds: Because when he finally met his fantasy woman, he wanted more than anything to believe that she was, in fact, a woman.

Don't tell this to anyone else, but when I curl my hair and put on lip-gloss and toddle around in heels, wondering if Alex would like what he sees, I feel like I'm a walking caricature in the shape of a girl. When I’m online with him I simper, I preen, I ask stupid questions just to keep him talking to me– and he likes it, or at least I really hope he does. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wonder what'll happen if I stop performing. I wonder if there’s anything left of me below the performance.

I used to worry that I fell in love with something that doesn't exist: the myth of America, the barbeques and the cornfields and the porches, the honky-tonk and the church social and the choir all singing, the cowboys on their vast, empty ranches. A place that's already gone, or else never existed at all– but what does that matter? An unreal place for an unreal girl. If everyone's performing, then no one is.

–

How much of this is true, then?

It's true as backroads and cold beer and pickup trucks. True as private jets and cowboy hats and exaggerated drawls. True as Nashville and Wallen and the CMAs. Which is to say, it's as true a story as you want it to be.

–

Tell the home folks that I'm happy, with someone that's true I know

I love a pretty geisha girl where the ocean breezes blow

–

In the months around my eighteenth birthday, my parents start screaming at each other. Suffice to say, they never really stop. I take up temporary residence in the school library instead, and spend my afternoons staring at maths textbooks while regretting every decision I’ve ever made. My exams are drawing closer. I’m sure I’ll fail them. It doesn’t feel real. Nothing does. I can’t bring myself to look at my future, I can’t, and yet like the long black train / coming down the line I know what’s going to happen when it hits me, and I know, I know– it’s not gonna be good. I start learning how to fall asleep to the background noise of things getting thrown. When my friends come over to study, they call the house beautiful. I guess it is.

On the way back from school, pressed into a corner of a sardine-packed bus, I put one earphone in and watch the sunset fall over the expressway, the heat turning the sky a gorgeous, deadly pink. Loretta Lynn sings: Well, I look out the window and what do I see? / The breeze is a-blowing the leaves from the trees / Everything is free, everything but me. The Chicks sing: She needs wide open spaces / Room to make her big mistakes. John Prine sings: Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery / make me a poster of an old rodeo / Just give me one thing that I can hold on to / To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go.

Meanwhile, in my headphones, a thousand different stories unfold, familiar missives from some far-off place: a son buries his parents. A wife kills her husband. Two childhood friends fall in love. A girl convinces her father to let her marry her boyfriend. A woman pins a runaway to a motel wall. Somebody calls his ex, even though he shouldn’t. A mother sells her daughter to an older man. A traveller gets on a train. The unfamiliar place names rush past. Amarillo, Charleston, Jackson, Cheyenne, Chattahoochee: evidence of an existence outside of calculus and grammar and pushing my desk against my door to block it. In my head I picture as if through a window some wide, sprawling prairie, some open starry sky, and think of Mary Oliver – so this is the world. I’m not in it. It’s beautiful.

–

(Meanwhile, online: it’s a different story.)

–

If it was a breakup, would it have been better? There's no shortage of breakup songs in country music, after all. Like, What right does she have to take you away / when for so long, you were mine? Like, I'm crazy for loving you / Crazy for thinking that my love could hold you Like, Nothing much for us to say / One last goodbye and you drove away.

Instead, it’s the stupidest, most mundane of reasons: we just stop talking. I couldn’t tell you exactly why. For me, I’m wrapped up in exams, family stuff, a clown car full of childhood friends crashing their way back into my life without warning; for him, he’s busy at Harvard, busy with his new friends and new projects and new–

Okay. Fine. His new girlfriend.

I can’t blame him. I don’t have any right to. I still don’t know whether I actually loved him or I was just sixteen, lonely and looking to write myself into a song. Still, after I learn that he’s dating her, I fall into a haze of social-media stalking: I scroll through their Instagrams, their Twitters, anything that’ll tell me more about who he was, who they are. She’s cute, I’ll give her that, and they’re cute together, the kind of forever and ever, amen couple whose profiles are full of heart-shaped chocolates, of candid kisses and in-jokes I’ll never get to hear.

(A love song with no meaning. A language you don't speak.)

For weeks and weeks on end I dream of him, but the really funny thing is that even in these dreams he’s nothing but a spectre: texting me, calling me, writing long-winded letters in the mail. The closest I ever get is this dream where I’m walking through his hometown, the one I looked up in Google Earth in a fit of desperation. It’s just like I thought it would be, every house gorgeous and stately and ancient, the trees barren but still grand. My hometown’s always been warm. It’s the one thing I have in common with the people in the songs, that overwhelmingly oppressive heat, the kind that sucks all the energy out of your bones. Even though Alex lives at the edge of America, Stephen King and sweaters country, in the dream it’s not cold at all– Georgia hot, hometown hot. As I run from house to house, ringing every doorbell, the roads seem to stretch out beneath my feet until the next door seems oceans and continents away. Nobody’s home. Nobody’s there. In the dream, I’m not surprised.

Sometimes I worry that everything I love is already gone, but I guess I knew that already. That doesn’t mean I didn’t love it.

–

When I'm eighteen, my parents spend a small fortune on a family holiday to America, some last-ditch effort at holding the household together. I miss most of it, however, because the moment I step off the plane I come down with the worst cold I've ever had in my life. Thankfully, during the last couple of days I begin to feel a little bit more like a human being and not just a collection of symptoms, so I manage to go down with my family to the shore.

Maybe it's the ghost of the fever coming back to haunt me, or maybe it's just December, but the beach is bitingly cold, the evening light only just poking through the clouds. Standing there, I find myself thinking– predictably– of Alex. We haven't talked in months, at this point: the last thing I texted him was im in the us lol to which he responded Haha enjoy, and that's about it.

On some other shore, so far away we might still be in different countries, Alex is at Harvard writing essays about America– learning how to understand it, how to shape it, how to make it somewhere he can love without reservation. But I'm not him. I know, now, that I know nothing at all about America: not the blue and far-off one in my songs. but the real place, full of contradictions, land of guns and welfare and Walmart and the Free.

I keep going back to what Alex asked me when I was fifteen, when we barely knew each other: so why do you like country music? And it's only here, now, freezing in a down jacket on the California coast, that I finally have an answer for him.

I think: because every good country song is a love song in its own way.

I think: because country music is the only thing I've ever known how to love.

I think: I have stood and watched the sun rise from the waters of the sea / and I've wondered how much beauty in this cruel world can there be / My dreams are all worth dreaming and it makes my life worthwhile / to see my pretty geisha girl dressed in oriental style.

I think: does there really need to be a reason, A?

From somewhere behind me, I hear someone call my name. I turn. It's my mother yelling: “Come back to the car! It's getting cold!”

“Coming!” I yell back, and run to her.

–

Before I have to go back home, I manage to get my hands on a Shania Twain t-shirt, which honestly makes the entire trip worth it.

#just posting for archive purposes #hi william if youre reading this #writing

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blushedfemme · 5 months

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Hi, fresh new anon here.

I just want to say I like a lot (most of) your posts and I enjoy reading everyone's asks too.

I nervous/embarrassed to even say so so I don't know why I am, but I'm in the 30's and I feel like I need urban dictionary open over half the time to understand all the different terminology and types of butches.

I thought it was just butch. Turns out it's like Pokémon and there's a dozen types 😅.

When I was figuring myself out (and I don't even think I have tbh), living where I do and with the information available to me, there was just butch and femme. If you were femme it was lipstick and that was all the terms I knew.

I've been in the community for half my life but there's so many terms I don't know or where I fit. Just makes me feel a little dumb I guess. I sort of put myself in the butch box but I never really felt quite there. Certainly not femme. Just not, I don't know, not strong enough or handy enough or whatever it is that "butch" was supposed to be when I was exposed. I'm like, butch lite? Like, I can hang up a picture on the wall for you and put together IKEA furniture but I can't go build you a whole new dresser with all my tools in the garage or whatever. Like I never unlocked the full subscription or something 🤣. And I don't know if there's terms for that or if girls like that. I'm just only 'sort of good' at all the things I think a butch should be really good at in my head. Jack of all trades master on none deal.

I don't have muscles like all these pictures I keep seeing and I'm a little bit rounder than I'd like. Got the chivalry part down though cuz that just feels like basic human decency.

I don't know. I like seeing all the positivity and love here. Maybe you've got some advice or some useful links or info or something to help a not-quite-butch out?

(The main point, besides, is I still enjoy it here and you are pretty awesome. (And also just pretty😳))

Sorry for the book 😅

okay i’ve been sitting on this ask a moment bc i want to give you the answer you deserve 🥺💞💓

firstly, i am so honored that you enjoy my blog and find it a positive and loving space!! i have SO much love for millennial butches, i mean i’m on the cusp of millennial and gen-Z myself but anyway. butches who are in their 30s and early 40s, i feel a special kinship and appreciation for you. social media queer spaces are super different from irl queer spaces, and the landscape shifts so fast i have a hard time keeping up, too. it’s absolutely okay to feel overwhelmed by the sudden proliferation of identity terms and to not be sure where you fit! even younger ppl who are less online feel the same way.

as for the other part of your ask… i could sit here and recycle the rote platitudes you see in positivity posts, that butches don’t have to be muscular, butches don’t have to be thin, butches don’t have to be able-bodied and capable of building a fucking house or whatever with their bare hands, in order to be butch. all very true! but you’ve probably heard them before and to me they fall a little flat.

so here’s what i’ll tell you instead: when i think of butches, i think of softness. 99% the butches i’ve met irl are not thin and muscular and hyper-masc. the fact that these images STILL dominate art and imagination around butches confounds me. when i daydream up a butch in my head and rotate them in the mind (as i often do) they’ve got a soft round middle, and a soft face, and soft, warm hands. they’re not chopping up wood or building me a table, they’re bringing me a cup of tea and checking in on me, they’re telling me about their latest LEGO build, they’re reading out loud to me from their favorite book. they’re chivalrous and goofy and kind. they wear button-downs with silly patterns and logo tees and hoodies and sweats. i’ve seen people call themselves a “soft butch” and if that resonates then that’s wonderful, call yourself what makes you happy, but to me butchness is soft. it may have a hard shell sometimes, out of necessity and out of pride, but underneath butch is always so beautifully, achingly soft. and it’s not about being super ‘handy’ or whatever, though that’s nice and all, that’s not what defines butch to me. i think if you feel butch, then you are, and if you love femmes and other butches, and you know in your heart that the butch role suits you, then that’s all you need in order to be butch. ❤️

i wish i had some links off the top of my head for some good genuine inclusive butch positivity, i know it’s out there. if you’d like to, please send another ask with a few specifics of what you’re looking for (essays? articles? books? videos?) and i will gather what i can!

thank you for sending this ask 🥰 my biggest goal with this blog (besides being horny) is to make butches feel welcome and safe and seen, and i’m so glad you’re here 💖💗💕

#clarke answers #long post #butch love #👾 anon

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justkending · 1 year

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Finding Memories. Chapter 11.

Series Summary: Waking up with little to no memory of her past, and being saved by a group of individuals who call themselves heroes, sends a long time captive for a whirlwind trying to find some form of grounding in this world she quickly learns runs on chaos. But she’s not the only one trying to figure out her forgotten backstory. Bucky Barnes, along with the other Avengers, can’t help but sense that there is a lot more to the whole situation than a diagnosis of amnesia. Her background slowly starts to come forward in pieces of her past and hidden information discovered. Who is she? And why was she in the room they were meant to destroy?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 3200+

TW: Torture, cussing, and blood.

A/N: I just want to say thank you for the messages:) They really helped make me feel like I wasn’t stressing any of ya’ll out. BUT I am VERY HAPPY to say that I finally started getting back into the natural flow of writing for this story. I think it helps I found an amazing fanfic on Wattpad recently, here’s the link, and it’s helped motivate me and give me inspiration :) I think reading similar writing styles are for sure a nice little cure to writer’s block when you need it most. Anyway, I’m already working on chapter 12 and hope to have it out soon. Also, I promise some Bucky and Y/N scenes are coming up soon, but I needed this chapter to build up to it;) XOOXOOXOOXOXOOX

Chapter 11:

Putting two and two together, the position of where the scent and sounds had been coming from, and the direction of Y/N’s room... Someone was watching her.

He was so one track minded he didn’t even remember the record breaking sprint he made to Y/N’s room. But as soon as his eyes saw the door in front of him, he realized rushing in while in a frenzy probably wasn’t the best idea considering she was already on edge as it was. If he came in a panic, she would no longer have her room feel like a safe space. Especially if she figured out why he was panicked.

Luckily, he knew Y/N didn’t lock her door, so he quietly opened it and was careful not to startle anyone on the other side of it.

And sure enough, Y/N was fast asleep in her bed, unbothered.

He couldn’t leave without checking the balcony locks and making sure any entry point besides the bedroom door was impossible to break into.

Without waking her, and still doing a whole room security check, he found it all secure.

He knew he needed to leave so he wasn’t invading her personal space, but a part of him didn’t feel comfortable doing that. But she was safe and there was nothing he could do but be there in close proximity for now.

He went back to his room, grabbed his computer and quickly hacked into the security system. As he checked the cameras, he sat himself along the wall in the shared hallways of their rooms.

Sat up against the wall and in easy view of Y/N’s door, he began investigating the perimeter cameras for anything out of the ordinary.

There was nothing of concern to come across the screen within the last few days, up to the point of late afternoon present day.

Some agents and other workers had walked on the trail, but none of them ventured off into the manicured lawn. A few gardners came through, but they were spraying the lawn and not actually doing much gardening.

The tree line was hard to see through in the night's low lighting, but he did see the playback of him running and stopping.

He rewinded it a few times trying to see if he could see the movement that caught his attention in the first place, but nothing gave away what he seemed to have heard.

He watched himself investigate and look around the tree line a few times before he came up empty. But after playing it for the 6th time, he noticed a movement in the corner of the screen barely making the picture.

He zoomed in and messed with the lighting to try and get a better look at the anomaly. The bush on the edge of the screen moved in an interesting way.

It wasn’t something as simple as the wind because it looked like the leaves had been pushed away for someone to move around, but there was no one to have done it.

He couldn’t seem to process reasoning for the bush to move the way it did.

“Hey, what are you doing out here?” Wanda asked, just now getting back to her room.

He looked up surprised by her presence, as he thought everyone was in bed for the night since it was late. He released his breath seeing it was just her and no one else.

She looked to Y/N’s door then back to him.

“You ok?” she asked, genuinely.

“I’m ok,” he tried to brush off his anxiety of the night. “What are you doing up?”

“Was running an errand,” she lied. “Why are you up? And why are you just hanging out in the hallway instead of your room that’s two doors down?” She joined his position along the wall and slid down to sit next to him.

“I went for a run and needed to check some of the security cameras.” He wasn’t lying, but he also wasn’t giving her all of the truth.

She waited for him to go on and explain the random research, but he just kept clicking things on his computer and continuing on his self-proclaimed mission.

“Is this the part where you tell me why, or do I have to peek into that head of yours?” she asked, with a friendly nudge.

He smiled some at her teasing and appreciated the joke to ease some of the tension from the given scenario.

“After I went to the gym, I decided to go for a late night run around the compound. I needed to clear my head of some things,” he explained, and she nodded following along. “When I went along the backside of the perimeter, I thought I heard something along the treeline that way,” he pointed toward Y/N’s side of the hall, showing the direction of where he was at.

“Did you see anything?” she furrowed her eyebrows.

“No. That’s the issue,” he grumbled, clicking more keys on the computer and trying to get different angles of the spot. “But I know something was there,” he said in a determined manner.

“Did you hear anything else after the first time?”

He paused thinking about it. “Kind of, but the wind was strong enough that I couldn’t differentiate it from things moving in the wind or someone trying to hide.”

“And nothing on the camera either?”

He moved the laptop for her to see better and played back the only piece of evidence he could find. She watched it a few times and Bucky noticed she had grown a look of confusion like he had.

“Did that plant move?” she asked.

“This one?” he pointed to it.

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Can’t tell if my brain is just seeing what it wants, or if there is something actually there.”

“Something seems like it’s there,” she said in an intrigued tone. “Play it again.”

They watched it a few more times and still weren’t positive about what they were seeing.

“I want to write it off as nothing to worry about,” he paused. “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

“Why’s that?” She was curious.

“The placement of where I thought the noise came from had a perfect view of the rooms on this side of the hall,” he motioned to Y/N’s side and Wanda’s side of the building. “And after looking a little closer, it has a really good view of Y/N’s balcony and into some of her windows. Whoever was out there, chose a spot that would be discrete, yet give them all kinds of access to Y/N’s privacy. I don’t think the placement was random.”

___________________________________

Bucky ended up staying near Y/N’s room until early the next morning and when he heard her wake up through the door. He quickly made his way back to his room for a shower and a change of clothes before going to his next assignment of the day.

The only thing giving him some form of peace about Y/N’s security was knowing Wanda was in the loop of his worries and had promised that once she was up, she would be with her for most of the day and keep an eye on her for him.

After the shower and feeling a tad bit put together, he was headed to the med bay.

The first person he knew to ask about the strange occurrence wasn’t any of the Avengers. It was someone who knew a thing or two about spying on Y/N.

“Sergeant Barnes, I wasn’t expecting you to drop by today,” Alma, the head nurse that practically ran the place, raised an eyebrow at the super soldier as he walked in with a task at hand. “Anything I can help you with?”

“I need to speak to the woman who we talked to yesterday. Were you ever able to get a name on her?” Bucky asked, looking in the room behind her as if she would magically be there.

“Ava,” Alma responded after a second. “And she’s not here. Got released this morning.” Bucky gave an uneasy look. “Not released, released,” she emphasized. “They moved her to a holding room. She’s still under our jurisdiction and is going to be questioned later.”

“Level 10 or 11?” he asked, already making his way to the elevator.

“Ten,” she answered in a shout as he was halfway down the hall already.

He nodded and went on to his next stop.

In his rush, he didn’t notice Tony coming from around the corner behind Alma. His hands in his pockets and a curious and intrigued look on his face.

“Who was he looking for?” Tony asked Alma who was now busied by a chart she had grabbed.

She looked up at him in a quick glance then went back to the paperwork in front of her.

“Ava, or that woman who was the second attacker the other night at the museum,” she answered truthfully.

“What about the one I just talked to?” he pushed on.

“Is she still unresponsive?” Alma questioned like it was an obvious answer.

Again, she had been around the Avenger’s long enough to have an attitude with them and not have to worry about getting reassigned to a new job. It was also one of the main reasons they kept her around. She was the only other person stubborn enough outside of their group to put up with them.

“If by unresponsive you mean no longer throwing things at people when they come in to question her, then yes. She’s unresponsive. Though I’m sure the straight-jacket she’s in may be playing a part in her silent treatment,” Tony said with a sassy judgy look in his eyes.

“Cool it, Stark,” she rolled her eyes, pulling the clipboard to her chest and looking at him with a tired look. “If you had to be here close to all hours of the day with patients who don’t want to be here and are brainwashed 50% of the time, you too would put one of the physically harmful patients into something that kept you from changing scrubs every 30 minutes with another yogurt, saline, and bodily liquids accident on you.”

“You speaking from experience?”

His question was sarcastic and ended with a shit-eating grin that Alma knew all too well. He knew that even if she claimed to not be in the mood for his type of humor a majority of the time, she was happy to have some of the relief from frustrating shifts that were daily occurrences.

“Is she still playing the quiet game?” She went on to ask with the slightest smirk on her face she actively tried to hide by looking back at the paperwork in front of her.

“Only person to beat her out would be Morgan when I ask her why there’s permanent markers drawn all along the halls of the house,” Tony sighed. “But the girl, Ava, she is talking?”

“Last I heard, yes. She has a completely different discourse to this whole situation. If you ask me, I think something made that girl snap out of whatever loyalty the other one has toward whoever hired them,” Alma sighed before tapping another nurse that passed by and handed her the chart, mumbling some tasks for her to do. “She hasn't thrown a bowl full of luke-warm clam chowder soup into my bra at any point in her stay, so I’d say I prefer her.”

“Bleck,” Tony shivered at the thought. “No wonder she threw it on you. Who would want hospital clam chowder?”

“Is there anything else I can help you with Tony, or are you just going to keep haggling with me about the various types of liquids I go home covered in?” she said with a quirked eyebrow and hand on her hip.

“You deserve a raise,” he pointed, walking backwards after passing her. “Just checked with the boss,” he raised a finger as if waiting for an answer. “Done. Congrats and thank you for your service.”

“I’m still expecting that Christmas Bonus,” she waved him off, walking back to her round.

“How do you feel about unlimited soup in the hospital cafeteria?” he shouted her way after reaching the elevators.

“I think that sounds like me quitting more than it does getting a bonus,” she flipped him the bird before turning the corner and disappearing.

______________________________

As Bucky was heading to his new location, he called Steve asking him to meet him there. He had just entered the room they waited in before getting to the cell the girl was in.

Less than 30 seconds later, Steve was already walking through the door.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked, looking at Bucky in a worried way and then at the glass that separated them from her.

She had no clue they were there since she couldn’t see through the double sided glass.

Bucky was quick to inform Steve of his discoveries and concerns after his late night run and went onto discuss his questions he needed answered.

Steve was there mainly to have a second set of ears in his talk with the girl and for a second perspective.

“Ava?” Steve questioned when they entered the room.

She was lying on top of a comfortable cot that was placed in the corner and was staring up at the ceiling with a concentrated look on her face before hearing the lock on the door click.

“Captain America,” she responded, sitting up quickly and doing her best to be respectful even though inside she was terrified to see the two again.

“Please, call me Steve,” he waved her off.

He could hear her heartbeat racing at the anxiety that was not knowing the reason for their presence again. She had become used to agents and other workers hauling her around, and hadn’t really talked to the two Avengers besides the first night here.

“A-Are you sure?”

She was truly surprised by the kindness he was giving her. He didn’t look like he was here to interrogate or torture her. Hell, there would be no reason to as she would tell them anything they wanted to know.

Steve nodded with a small smile as he moved into the room, moving a seat in the chair they had by a desk in the corner and flipped it around before sitting.

Her set-up had been a nicer one since she had been nothing but cordial to all that had helped with her. She hadn’t proven to be the enemy besides the night at the museum and she claims she didn’t want any part of it to begin with.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she nodded his way, not sure what else to call him since the Winter Soldier was more of a form of slander in ways. Bucky didn’t correct her, but however nodded in agreement. “Is everything ok?”

“We came down to ask you a few questions that came up,” Steve replied. “If you can help us, great. If not, well… We’d appreciate it even if you tried.”

“There’s not too much I can tell you about my bosses. At least who they are specifically if that’s what you’re asking. They’ve asked me multiple times since coming here, but I don’t have any memory of who they are.” Bucky and Steve shared a look. “I only really have memories of what they did.”

Her nerves tensed quickly after she hinted at the torture they were sure of her to have gone through, the look in her eyes just proved their guesses.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said softly, saddened for the girl who sat in front of them. “Unfortunately, what we have questions about may connect to those things. Do you think you can help us still?”

She hesitated but nodded timidly.

“I can do my best,” she answered him before turning to Bucky more. “I promise that I didn’t want to do anything I did, so anything that could help that girl we were hired to kidnap-...” The words coming out were more upsetting as they were vocalized. “I would like to help where I can.”

Once again they could tell she was telling the truth. Whatever manipulation this young woman had been through was clearly something she was trying to process herself.

_________________________

After their talk with Ava, they learned that Y/N was most likely not the only person in the facility to have mutations. From their research, and from confirmation from a prisoner within the walls itself, their work revolved around finding the strongest mutant they could.

By default, they came to terms Y/N was probably their strongest project if she was in the room labeled, HIGH VOLUME WEAPON. HIGH CLEARANCE PERSONAL ONLY.

On top of that, there were no other mutants within that facility that they knew of. Which proved the point they already knew to be possible, there were more facilities out there they hadn’t infiltrated yet.

Throughout the last week Natasha, Steve, Sam, Tony, and Rhodey had been sent on side missions when a possible hit had been made on another underground science lab like the one Y/N had been saved from. However, each time they came up with empty and abandoned buildings and on a few occasions, labs that knew nothing of the higher order other than to send their research to them.

Ava had mentioned that most, if not all, bounty hunters, spies, and muscle men sent to complete jobs like the one she had been on, were enhanced in some way. Sometimes as simple as extra strength or slightly more enhanced agility on top of highly trained combat skills.

Other times it could range from invisibility, telekinesis, x-ray vision, being able to change the density of one's body, and the list went on. But those types weren’t usually sent unless it was a bigger job.

However, when asked why she and her partner had been sent instead of someone with more power if Y/N was such an enhanced person, she shrugged.

“I couldn’t really tell you. I know before we went in for the job, they injected us with something. Made our adrenaline high and all my normal strengths seemed to be heightened. Maybe they thought the sedatives would work and they didn’t have to worry about us having to hold our own,” she replied, hoping that would help some. “Truthfully, I don’t see any form of advantage to sending just two trained fighters with a syringe in rather than the other, but they sent us either way. ”

That was a hard one to understand as her job seemed to be doomed before it started.

After most of the mission talk was had, Steve was kind and asked if they had been treating her well and if she needed anything.

She was grateful for the sympathy and reassured him that no one had been ill-willed toward her even though she was in for the reasons that she was.

“They have every right to be, but they’ve been very hospitable,” she smiled softly at him. “And truthfully, I don’t mind being here. It’s a lot better than the places I’ve known and I know I’ll be safe in these walls.”

She seemed to say that in a way that she was trying to convince herself. She truly wanted to be safe in these walls.

“I’m glad you feel that way. If you need anything though, just let anyone of us know. We really do appreciate your help,” Steve nodded, walking to the door following after Bucky.

She thanked him and the door hissed as it locked behind him.

When he came out, he saw Bucky frozen with a glare on his face. He followed his eyeline and saw Tony sat across the room at the table that overlooked the cell’s window inside, leaning back in his chair and arms crossed. His signature sunglasses, red in tint, showed his expression perfectly in those brown eyes of his.

The red tint doing something to give him a gleam of gratification at the scenario.

“Tony.”

Feel free to follow me on Wattpad too and vote on any of your favorite chapters:) It helps promote my story & also makes my brain release tons of endorphins everytime I get a notification about one of ya’ll❤️

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aceofspades-sml · 1 year

Text

Brooklyn's here

Hey guess who finally wrote something !

This one is from a request by @and-we-will-fight-for-you , you requested angst/comfort kissing in the rain fic a while ago and I totally did not get carried away with the angst

Anyway I felt the need to write something for valentine's day and I wanted something sweet but then angsty Sprace hit me so I went with this instead

Canon era Sprace, this one takes place between King of New York and the rally !

Warnings : mention of violence, very slight violence, hints at trauma and anxiety bc it's canon era sprace what else do you want

You can also find it on ao3 here

Race was leaning face against the wall, his head in his arms, trying to catch his breath.

How could he have been stupid enough to think they would be okay ?

It had been okay, really, for a moment. When they were at Jacobi's, all he could think about, all any of them could think about, was their small but significant victory. They had their picture in the papes ! They all let themselves drown in the euphoria, so that they wouldn't have to think about what had happened earlier.

And then it had all gone wrong, when they had gone back to the Lodging House and Specs had come in with the news of Crutchie. He had said that he was in the Refuge, trying not to look too concerned about it, which had made most of the kids feel better. At least he wasn't dead.

They couldn't know.

Then Specs had pulled Race aside with Albert and Finch, so that the youngest ones wouldn't hear them, and told them the other part of the story. That Crutchie was looking bad, real bad. That he could barely even walk. That the Spider was probably gonna take it all out on him, since he was the only Newsie they managed to catch.

So Race had to get out. He didn't even know where he wanted to go, he just needed something else. He didn't want to face the sadness, the anger and the fear in his friends' eyes.

He didn't understand why he felt this bad. Sure, they had all been soaked, but nothing they hadn't seen before. Except before they had never got in trouble all at once. Before, they had always had their leader here, to comfort them and tell them it was going to be okay.

So yeah, maybe this explained why Race was sad, and scared out of his mind, but somehow it wasn't the worst. He felt betrayed. Not just because of Jack, but because the one person that could have helped them had abandoned them.

Until that moment, Race had hoped he would come to help. Brooklyn wasn't just gonna let them loose, were they ? Some Newsies from Brooklyn had even become friends with the ones from Manhattan, they couldn't just let them get soaked without saying a word, right ?

Now he realized how stupid he had been.

He wanted to punch something.

He wanted to keep running forever, run so that all he could think about was his heart beating, his feet hitting the ground, his breath getting heavier. So that he didn't have to think about the bruises on his face. About Crutchie, about Jack. About Brooklyn.

But he needed to catch his breath eventually. So he stopped and leaned against a wall in some alleyway, his throat so sore he couldn't even let out the scream that had been growing in his chest.

Only then did he notice he was completely soaked. It had started raining at some point in the evening, and he hadn't even noticed.

Great. That's all we needed.

He almost wanted to laugh at how absurd all this was. He was just standing here, in the rain, crying and not even knowing where he was.

God, you are so pathetic.

"Hey, what are ya doing here ?"

The angry voice was enough for Race to hold back his tears. He felt a hand on his shoulders and stiffened, still not turning his head toward the newcomer. He didn't need to, nor did he want to.

He wanted to punch someone.

"Racer ?"

The other boy's voice softened immediately, anger replaced with concern.

"Hey, kid, ya okay ?"

Race chuckled darkly and turned around, throwing the other's hand off his shoulder.

"Yeah, Spot, I'm okay. No thanks to you."

"What do ya-" Spot frowned, realizing what Race looked like. "Wait, what happened to your face ?"

"Oh, so ya care now, uh ?", Race snapped back. He wasn't feeling like being nice, especially not with him.

"Racetrack, tell me what happened."

"Yeah ? So what ? So then ya can go back to Brooklyn and keep goin' on with yer life ?"

The king of Brooklyn flinched slightly. When he had told Jack he wouldn't help right away, he wasn't thinking those 'Hattan idiots would actually get in trouble. But of course they did, and it seemed to have gone about as well as he could have expected. Though this seemed worse. He had seen Race getting beaten up before, the boy had a talent for getting in trouble, but now he looked really messed up.

"We got soaked, if ya wanna know so bad. All of us. The Delanceys, and goons, dozens of 'em. Beat the shit outta us." Race spat the words out, glad to have someone he could aim his anger at. Even when he saw Spot frown and open his mouth to talk, he didn't stop. "Remember Crutchie ? He's in the Refuge, with Snyder the spider. And Jack might as well be dead for all we know."

"Wait, Jack is what ?"

"That's right. No that you'd care, anyway. Ya can go back to Brooklyn now, I can handle myself. We don't need you."

Race felt like he had crossed a line. He had never talked that way to Spot Conlon before. Probably no one had ever talked to Spot Conlon that way before. Except right now, he couldn't possibly have cared less.

"Listen, kid…" Spot didn't even know what he wanted to say. He couldn't possibly get mad at Race, not after what he had told him. I'm sorry ? Yeah, right. That sounded a bit easy now.

Race shook his head with a bitter frown and turned away. He didn't even want to look Spot in the eyes.

No. You don't want Spot to see your face. Stop crying. Hey, don't cry, stupid.

"Racetrack, loot at me !"

Spot grabbed him by the arm and forced him to turn around, but before he could say anything else the other boy pushed him back so hard he fell flat on the ground.

"Don't touch me !"

"Racer-"

"C'mon, Spot ! What, ya think ya can just show up and pretend like everythin' is gonna be okay ? Cause it damn sure ain't !"

He saw something flash in Spot's eyes, though he didn't know what it was. It wasn't anger, which surprised Race. Guilt ? Nah, not him. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn the king of Brooklyn was feeling… sad ?

That's ridiculous. Spot isn't sad. He doesn't even care what you's saying.

Well, Race didn't care, either.

When Spot got up and took a step toward him, a pleading look on his face, Race punched him in the chest. Not real hard, Race had never been a fighter, but Spot still looked pretty hurt.

Good for him.

Spot took a few steps back, wincing. If it had been anyone else he would have punched right back, but he knew Race had every right to be mad at him. "Racer, listen to me-"

Before he could say anything else Race tried hitting him again, but so weakly that Spot managed to catch his arm, forcing the boy to look at him.

"Race, look, I'm sorry ! I didn't think you would-"

"Yeah ?" Race snapped, trying to get Spot's hand off his arm. "Then why didn't ya show up earlier ? Jack and Mouth told ya we'd need help, didn't they ?"

Still gripping the boy's arm, Spot couldn't do anything but nod slowly. He knew he had messed up, but somehow seeing Race on the verge of tears was even worse than hearing his reproaches. He had never seen his friend snap at someone like this before. The only time Race had looked that messed up was…

When he got back from the Refuge.

"If ya had shown up earlier, none of this woulda happened ! Now Crutchie is in the Refuge and might as well be dead 'cause of ya ! Jack-" Race felt his voice breaking and fought back tears.

He refused to cry in front of Spot Conlon. He refused to cry for Spot Conlon. Oh, great, he was crying now.

"We don't even know where Jack is !"

Spot shook him by the arm, firmly enough for Race to stop talking. "Racetrack, will you just shut up and listen to me ?"

Race wanted to scream at him, to hit him as hard as he could, but he didn't even have any energy left. All he could do was nod, his look still dark enough for Spot to understand he should be careful.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay ? We should… I should have done somethin' earlier. I didn't believe Jackie boy and the Mouth guy were serious about this whole thing. And I didn't think you guys from 'Hattan would actually get yourselves into the fight."

"Yeah, guess we are that stupid." Spot struggled to hold back a smirk. Knowing Race, sarcasm was progress. Well, it was better than screaming, anyway.

"We's gonna look for Jack, okay ? All of us. And we'll find a way to get Crutchie outta there. It's gonna be okay, Racer."

Race couldn't help but snort through his tears.

"Yeah ? And how's ya planning to fix this ?"

Spot really didn't have an answer for that. Mostly because, unlike what Race had made himself believe, he was feeling guilty, and also because right now anything he could think of saying would feel insufficient, considering what he had done. Or rather, hadn't done.

So instead he did what he had wanted to do since he found him in the alley, what he had wanted to do ever since the day he met this annoying little shit that was Racetrack Higgins, all those years ago.

He kissed him.

He didn't know what he was doing, he hadn't planned to do this, none of them had. For a moment he thought Race was just gonna push him away and get even angrier. So when Race finally kissed him back, he felt relief wash over him.

Many thoughts flashed through Race's mind.

What the hell is happening ?

Oh yeah, kissing in the rain while crying. God, that's so pathetic. Can you get any more cliché ?

And finally did Spot fucking Conlon just kiss me ?

When they pulled away, both of them out of breath and eyes wide in shock, Spot noticed Race was on the verge of tears again and almost panicked. Okay, kissing him definitely did not fix this.

When Race reached for him, he flinched slightly, thinking the boy was still mad at him, but he threw his arms around Spot and clung to him like his life depended on it. After a moment of confusion, Spot hugged him back and waited for Race to stop shaking.

What the hell is happening right now ?

"We're gonna get cold" Race muttered eventually, his face crooked in the other boy's neck.

"Don't care." Spot answered softly, though he guided Race under an awning nearby to protect them from the rain.

He wiped Race's tears away with his thumb and pulled back a little to look at him.

"C'mon, gotta get ya back to 'Hattan."

Race nodded, still holding on to Spot, until realization of something seemed to hit him and he looked back at the other boy, furrowing his eyebrows.

" Wait- why were you even out there in the first place ?"

Spot sighted. "I wanted to talk to Jack. Like I said, I'm sorry I didn't come earlier."

Race's eyes widened when he realized what Spot had been trying to say.

"Ya don't mean-" His face was now beaming, and Spot smirked in return, happy to see Race seemingly back to his normal self.

"That's right, Racer. Ya got Brooklyn."

And, because he knew that was what Race needed to hear, he added "You got me."

Race punched him playfully, smiling. "You'se such a jerk, Spot Conlon."

"Racetrack Higgins, did ya just punch me ?" Spot was trying to look mad, and desperately falling.

"Yeah, what's you gonna do about it ?"

Spot shook his head with a smirk. This was gonna be complicated, and they definitely would need to have a long conversation about it later. But at least now they had something to hold on to. And in the following days, they would most likely be needing that.

Maybe it was gonna be okay after all.

#oh look who finally published their writing #now to crawl in an abyss and disappear for the next thousand years #anyway this is like the second fic i have ever written tell me if you think anything is wrong i'm always up for improvement !#newsies #sprace #spot conlon #racetrack higgings #ely writes

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kanmom51 · 2 years

Note

kanmom please this is an emergency!!!!!!! (me signalling you)

Polyc has JM AND JK tattooed on his arm!!

Probably the dates they got their tattoos, but it looks like they themselves signed on his arm! jm standing for jimin (a big HAHA!!!!! moment for me) and jk standing for jungkook, obviously

I wonder if the other members signed on his body too!

Bat signal received !!

Holy crap.

Like wow indeed.

And close up

You sent me this ask to hear my thoughts on the matter, so here they are:

Now, when JK had his tattoos revealed and this one came up:

I was going "hmm...interesting", but moved on, because this artist he did a hell of a lot of work for JK, created a piece of art JK is proud to show, and that could have been JK's way of appreciation, Poly signing his arm like a piece of art.

But now, although that could be part of it, I think there might be a bigger picture here, a personal connection beyond one of a tattoo artist with their client.

I'd go as far as saying that Poly having JM and JK's initials tattooed on his body is pretty big.

This isn't a publicity stunt (re: Benny Blanco) that's for sure.

This is personal. Very personal to have someone's initials tattooed on your body. And the way I see it it would mean that these two men are important enough to Poly to have their initials tattooed on his arm with numbers attached. That they are beyond clients. Friends perhaps, good friends? Which is kind of amusing because with the whole Poly posting the JM&JK bracelet saga it was evident, well to me in any case, that Poly got their permission to do that. And now I can't help but wonder if perhaps in advance?

Anyway, moving on, initials and numbers.

Let's start with the initials shall we?

They might very well be JM and JK's hand writing, respectively, but if you look at the J in JK it's more like JM's J than the one he uses in his autographs. The K looks like JK's K though.

Could be their writing, could be just Poly's. Hard for me to conclude, because of that J in the JK.

As for the numbers.

When I first saw them, just after waking up, my tired old eyes didn't see the dot. All I saw was 422 and 225. I wasn't sure what it meant, a date, numbers to add up, I even commented about it dazed and half asleep (note to self: wait till you fully wake up before opening your big mouth)... 🤷‍♀️

But after my morning coffee, I went back to look and saw that all important dot. 4.22 and 2.25. That swayed me more towards the date option rather than numbers to add up. First meeting, first tattoo, who knows. If it's first tattoo that would mean JK's first work with Poly was done at the end of February, while JM's first tattoo with Poly 22 April? That would be right back from LV? I don't think it can be the date he finalized work on them, because when we saw JK in LV his tattoo work was not finished yet.

So, I don't know what those numbers are.

Another thing I ask myself is does the proximity of the two tattoos to each other mean something? That they are connected, beyond the two being from BTS?

Another question of mine unanswered I guess.

What I do know is that it was all meaningful enough for him to write it on his body permanently.

Now, to your question, do I think the other members have their initials tattooed somewhere on Poly's body, my answer will be no. Not unless they have connected with him, have a bond beyond client and tattoo artist, one that I now do believe JK and JM have with him (I don't have to remind that JM was saying he and JK will discuss the friendship tattoos with a tattoo artist, cough Poly cough, do I now?). He has their autographs on his wall. The BTS members aren't the only celebrities to have had work done by him. I doubt he has all their initials tattooed on his body. I do think that this is a special case with those two, a special connection, close meaningful friendship perhaps.

#Jikook #Kookmin #Minkook #Jungkook #Jimin #JK #JM #Jikook and PolyC

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levmada · 2 years

Note

Hi Gee!! Congrats on 1k <3 may I request a canonverse drabble with levi and the hurt/comfort prompt: ( 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄 ) ; one muse helps the other into a bath/shower after a traumatic event. or they bathe together. Perhaps after the 57th expedition? (🥲) anyways much love and i hope everything’s going well for you today! 💕

this turned long as fuck bc i love this concept jay!!! i based it instead around the fall of wall maria bc it’s not written abt in fic enough🥲i hope that’s okay❤️

One muse helps the other into a bath/shower after a traumatic event / they bathe together.

content/warnings: heavy hurt/comfort, descriptions of dissociation, everyone is so so vulnerable, descriptions of a panic attack, angst, obsessive-compulsive cleaning (to the point of slight self-harm), happy ending I promise

wc: ~3.1k

Considering… the overwhelming hell you had been breathing in, fighting tooth and nail against, and suffering through for…

Three days, isn’t it? Maria fell three days ago. It feels so long ago.

Levi is knocked from his stupor by a field nurse, a thin young woman, calmly clearing her throat. She asks him if he needs more towels.

He doesn’t react. He was finishing a thought, but he can’t remember what it was now.

A pressed, clean mask covers the lower half of her face, below bright green eyes, waiting. Her garb is spotless, too. You could spot a single grain of dirt if it fell on it.

Why does she look so strange?—Like not quite real?

“Squad Leader? Do you need anything else?”

Levi blinks slightly past her, remembers his train of thought from before. Considering it all, these cast-iron tubs in the near vicinity of the field hospitals are baths fit for kings.

Rows of them are lined up all around for the survivors and otherwise misplaced Scouts now that Shiganshina HQ is overrun, with makeshift curtains traditionally used for privacy in the field hospitals. They guarantee at least some semblance of privacy.

The tubs themselves are propped up on metal rungs so a stove, which is little more than a campfire, heats the water underneath.

Water from rivers, but bacteria can be killed. Filth can be eviscerated. He wants it to boil.

Small soap bars, no doubt made of the cheapest crumbs of lye possible, have been rationed out, as have the towels.

Towels.

He blinks, but the nurse has left him, replaced with you: a common picture of someone who has seen hell and come out the other side scathed, but alive. You part the curtain with one arm, the other with a bundle of clothes tucked underneath.

He must have taken too long to reply. All that escaped him, but to be fair, he hasn’t gone crazy. Not every body was killed by invading Titans.

Your voice is cracked. “Did you get fresh clothes?”

“Yeah… They were handing them out like candy.”

He eyes the clothes in your arms. They’re supposed to be fresh, but just like how he isn’t looking forward to changing into his after laying his hands on them, it is all so filthy. Blood and grit soaked into a single fiber contaminates the rest.

He turns away, scrubs his raw, twitching, filthy hands down his disgusting face and feels his gag reflex start to work. It is so easy to be the face of strength until you no longer need to. Suddenly you threaten to shatter into countless glass shards in a field of sharp edges.

He murmurs your name, and a hand floats onto his shoulder, rubbing into the leather.

“Sorry,” he grunts, eyeing the clear bathwater through his fingers. “Tell me how you’re holding up.”

Your dry lips press. “Probably the same as you.”

Except it is not the same, because when you all arrived in Trost (however long ago that was; this morning?—Or last night, late enough to count as morning?) you needed a fresh cast on your wrist for a sprain.

Your bodies are both busted, bruised, and scraped in some way, but that is the difference.

But even if it wasn’t, he would have found one.

Regardless, this is how he convinces you to get in first, but not without him giving his word that he will follow right after.

He doesn’t argue, obviously.

In settling down on the edge of the tub, you groan softly, and thrust your hand in the direction of the belt strapped across your chest.

“Slow down.” Levi kneels down and begins to tug on your leathers. “One thing at a time.”

Your trigger fingers are practically vibrating as you lean and take some support by his shoulder before your mud-caked boots and socks hit the dirt. He lines them up against the tub.

As for your belts, you share the work. When the tangled mass of leather droops below your waist, he starts on your thighs as you fumble for your jacket, followed by what once was your white uniform button-up. It is left a canvas splotched in brown mud, black soot, and red upon pink upon maroon; blood in various stages of drying.

Very little of it is yours, which is evident when your shirt peels off your sweat-caked upper half. Belts are done away with.

“Levi?”

Your voice is small, but it startles him like a gunshot; he got accustomed to the silence.

You gesture to your bra. “Can you help, please? It hurts to turn around.”

He plants himself down beside you and turns your back towards him.

“Are you sure nothing’s broken? Just your wrist?”

Your hand haphazardly ghosts over your side. “I think some ribs… bruised.”

“You’ll get that checked out later.”

He doesn’t leave room to argue.

While he’s at it, he brushes your hair, a mess of snarled tangles, from your back entirely to take careful account of your injuries: what is more likely to get infected, which spots he shouldn’t risk touching in case they hurt you, and how hurt you are, period.

“I will,” you assure. “I’ll get them checked. Please tell me you will too.”

When he manages to get the clasp undone after some finicking (thanks to his shakes), he rubs a bump in your spine with his thumb. “Don’t worry about me.”

To his surprise, your shoulders lift with a sudden, soft sob. The fabric sags from your middle.

“Don’t tell me that. Don’t fucking, tell me that! That’s all I’ve been—”

“Okay.” His jaw moves uselessly, helpless. “Okay, I will. After this.”

“O-Okay,” you weep. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” His forehead brushes your back without much thinking on his part. He knows now the meaning of the phrase, ‘dead-tired’. “I mean that.”

“I know, Levi.”

He smooths the straps from your shoulders, and the bra plops down on top your shirt, not unlike garbage.

But stains can be scrubbed out, tears stitched. After.

Your uniform pants and your panties soon join that pile. You manage to drop your legs in the water after that, but same as before, your side is giving you trouble. Ugly purple, bordering on black bruises riddle that area.

“Hold onto me,” he murmurs. Behind you, even though his arms feel heavier than black lead, he hooks his elbows up and under your arms. The rest of you is lifted like a feather into the searing water.

You hiss, features twisted severely into a cringe as your arms flounder for stability; they don’t make these things with guardrails. But Levi is there to steady you.

For moments on end, you need the time just to adjust to the searing water. You moan softly, a whimper dying in your throat as you stretch your legs out.

“You got it.”

He doesn’t sound as comforting as he wants. To make matters worse, his voice is nothing but a rasp, because for the past three days, he has been shouting orders.

“It hurts,” you hiss, eyes pinched shut “Everything hurts so bad.”

He doesn’t know how to reassure you. From the edge he takes a washcloth, soaks it, and wrings it over your shoulders. Grime smears down.

He chances a glance at the water. It’s already muddying into a muggy brown color, and you have a long way to go, let alone himself.

“Tilt your head back.” Two fingertips on your chin guide you. “You don’t need soap in your eyes, the state you’re in.”

A reserved hum. Your eyes close.

Washing is a slow, arduous process. For one, he must undo the damage to your hair with just his fingers. Nothing is easy.

You soak yourself with cloths and soap, but since your cast can’t touch water, Levi is forced to take over.

But he’s happy to. He doesn’t want you to be in more pain than you have to be, and it feels good to be useful.

But nothing is easy. His leathers creak, his fingers move like rotted hinges, they’re so stiff, and what feels like rocks dig into his spine whenever he bends. Constantly, parts of his body where his harness has been strapped for three days straight ache like burning acid.

But he manages. He has always managed. What you need from him, even though not explicitly said, is for him to be strong for you.

Periodically, this nurse or the other brings buckets of clean, steaming water. You will pop the drain on the tub, getting rid of the filth in exchange for the clean he pours in.

He reminds himself to commend whoever was in charge of that whole routine, after.

You’re massaging the crooks out of your neck by the time your body is clean, except for your injuries. Even the dirt under your nails.

“Come in with me,” you say, eyes closed.

It isn’t an argument, but Levi makes it one. “No. I’m too dirty.”

You pry your eyes open and shoot him a look that begs, even though your words are hard. “So was I.”

He weakly glares. “Not anymore. I’m covered in shit and blood and who knows what else, so if I join you all this work will have been for nothing.”

“Just put in clean water.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m fine!” he snaps. This sudden burst of anger comes from nowhere. “Worry about yourself.”

Your brow turns heavy and hard, then you look away. He realizes he fucked up when your shoulders start to wrack.

Since when have you been… made of glass?

Shakily, he sighs, eyes falling shut again. His mind is dull, full of nothing, yet somehow everything.

Doing this, it’s too easy to feel the steps shake the ground again, to hear cries, screams, the snapping jaws of monsters. Smoke burning his lungs, hard iron coating his nostrils.

Listening to your soft weeping, suddenly, he can’t get enough air in his lungs.

Relative to his body on the edge of the tub, he feels above and slightly beside himself, maybe floating.

He dips into the millstone sitting heavy and black in his chest, and gasps softly. No words can describe it, it is just grief. Visceral and sharp and starving.

He grits his teeth, feels himself from the perspective of glass shattering, and wants to scream, or kill another dozen Titans, or tear his fucking hair out.

You’re saying his name through solid fog. At first in question, then urgently.

He peels open his eyes, his head darting this way and that. Is there an emergency?—Will he have to fight again?—Because if so he can and he will and he should because he could have done better before. He could have fought harder, and saved more lives.

The Wall is gone and people are dead, countless people, and no one knows what to do. At least there is one thing he’s good for and that’s fighting and he can fight for the people, for you, for himself—

“Levi!” His back is hugged against your chest, your arms locked around his middle.

Instinctively his hands fly down in order to escape, but you’re telling him to be still and to breathe and to stop.

So he stops, tears of frustration daring to escape his shut eyes. You’re dirty, again. Because of him.

Somehow… Somehow he doubts he will ever be clean again, that none of this can be fixed. It’s all fallen in a tailspin, out of control. He hangs his head.

“Shh…” you coo over his shoulder. He sobs silently, his spine bending to accommodate you. “Breathe. Match me. It’s okay.”

Your breaths are calm, filling your lungs through your nose before letting it all go in a tight hiss through your mouth.

“Imagine filling your lungs up with everything you’re feeling when you inhale, then letting it all out. Do that for me, please.”

He can follow direct orders; that’s not something that requires thought.

Even though you’re squeezing him, it’s easier to breathe, somehow. It proves that you’re here, that you’re more real than the fresh memories could ever be.

Stay, he wants to say. You have to stay here, with him. Stay alive. He would keep you alive, just…

“I’m right here,” you’re murmuring into his hairline. “Keep breathing.”

He obeys silently. In lieu of subjecting himself to more torment by closing his eyes, he focuses in on the empty tin bucket. It contrasts sharply against the bright curtain, kept standing upright by metal rods.

His air, your steady arms, your steady words.

“…Can we clean you up now…?”

Your voice jerks him awake from a light doze. “What?”

“Levi, honey, let me help you. Please."

Without thinking, he wordlessly picks up his hand and pulls his cravat off in one sharp tug. It drops, followed by his jacket that you help bully off his arms.

“Is...”

Levi grunts, busy with these stubborn fucking buttons.

You touch his back. "Is any of this blood yours?"

“Maybe a little,” he replies, casual. Blood is blood. You have both seen worse. “It’s nothing.”

But as your hands feather further down, pulling on the shirt, you hiss like it is something.

“Scrapes. One’s bleeding.”

His fists squeeze so he doesn’t snap out of impatience again. That is the furthest thing from his biggest concern right now.

Belts, buckles, ties. They’re cast into his pile, followed by his mud-caked boots that he kicks off. His feet physically wail at him for standing so he can do away with his pants and briefs.

You’re watchful on the side of the tub, so he meets your eyes. Dirt marks a path where your middle was pressed against him a bit ago, and a spot of blood stains your cheek.

“Don’t just look at me,” you dismiss, and as if sensing it, you wipe your cheek. “Come here.”

“You got dirt on you, ‘cause of me. You were just cleaned and now, you—I’m disgusting,” he huffs tightly, “I’m so fucking—”

“No.” You open your arms. “Come here.”

Breathing hard, he ambles over. Sliding into the tub, you treat him with the same care so he feels as little pain as possible.

A groan grates his throat as steaming water rushes over his battered body, stealing the tension from deep within his muscles.

Hot water dashes over his head, your fingers shading his closed eyes; he doesn’t want to see the water be poisoned because of him. Shortly, you’ll grab a bucket, and start again. Like you said.

“I’m gonna get in now.”

“Okay.”

The water rocks as you slide in-between his legs. He senses you take a cloth, probably slathered in soap bubbles, while your other rubs his knee—the one that isn’t bruised.

He touches your waist, to have something real to tether him to earth. It all feels healing, instead of soaking in his own filth.

The cloth soothes his shoulders while a slick soap bar glides across his pecs, suds sliding down with the greasy dirt.

Meanwhile, with a washcloth of his own, he drags it down his cheek, gasps softly. He didn’t notice a bruise under his eye before.

He hisses as you painstakingly comb his soaked hair. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “It’s really tangled.”

His lips curl into a grimace. In his chest, shame like a heavy blanket constricts. “It’s just hair. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re tired. We both are,” your soft voice replies. “Close your eyes.”

He does. The water wobbles before an onslaught of the fresh pours heavily over his head, and runs down his face and back in rivets. He shivers.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” His eyes squeeze shut so tight that random lines dance across the darkness.

“It has to be.”

You narrowly avoid pressing too hard on the bruising to his waist, partly courtesy of the ODM, partly courtesy of taking one or two falls. Not even he can fight without mistake for three days straight, though he tried.

For the first time, you vanish briefly to drain the water and repeat the cycle Levi did for you previously.

He tried not to scrub too hard before, but it doesn’t feel good enough, not clean enough, so he slathers his upper half in more soap and scrubs and scrubs. Hard. Until his skin is raw and burning red. Like it could peel off by the time he’s done.

Then, he dashes the rag down his scratched middle. He hugs the rag to his thigh, and drags it up and down.

It’s all so wrong. He knows he was just being stubborn before, because suddenly there is nothing he craves more than your return; your hands, washing it all away.

“Levi,” you whine from above him. “It’s okay.”

He shakes his head—It’s not. Fucking never.—but the rag is stolen from his hand. It plops down behind his head.

He squirms, and says your name like a plead as hot water pours over his back.

“It’s good enough. Doing that will only make everything worse.”

He grits his teeth to the point of ache. He knows you’re right, but it’s hard. It’s so hard to believe it.

“Don’t leave,” is all he can say.

You don’t chide him. Your hands rake through his scalp, murmuring, “I’m not. I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

Shivers break over his skin to have soap be massaged into his scalp. When you scrub, he groans.

“I’d never fucking forgive you if you died on me,” he says, lies; he’d never forgive himself for letting it happen. “Stay where I can keep an eye on you from now on.”

He doesn’t know why all this is coming out now, only that he feels empty, as if the black grief has nothing to swallow, so it’s eating at his mind instead.

“Fucking s-say something.”

“Shh,” you soothe, too calmly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A relieved breath leaves through his lips as you clamber back into the tub again. When did his eyes close?

A washcloth sweeps from the bend of his knee to his haunches, then follows down his calf.

“It would help if you looked at me.”

He whimpers openly before his hand is scooped up in yours, and stiffly massaged. He tries to squeeze, but his strength is sapped, and he can’t make it last.

“Pathetic,” he mumbles, not entirely hearing himself. “I can’t even...”

Both sides of his jaw are hugged, followed by a kiss, or something much lighter than that—simply a touch of your lips.

“Open your eyes.”

The feeling of fresh light and color invading his vision is like waking up by a bucket of ice water being doused over his head.

He blinks rapidly, your worn face coming into focus. His hands follow up to mimic the way you’re holding him, and he relaxes.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. Your foreheads press. His eyes once again float closed, only for a kiss to his eyelid making them flutter open again.

“Don’t leave me either,” you whisper back, your eyes wildly darting between his.

Whatever he wanted to say, if anything, suddenly runs away from him. He doesn’t know what to say. “S-Sweetheart.”

Your eyes grow soft like spring, and then you kiss him. “I know, I know…”

Enter the event here!

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