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themeatpit37 · 8 months

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Stardew Valley Headcanons: How Elliott would handle a Cordycep Amabilis infection (Part 1 of infection series)

Cordycep Amabilis basics: Parasitic mushrooms that give you Yandere disease, slowly altering and deteriorates the mind.

General content warning: Yandere, obsessive behavior, death to the farmer (optional read), death, murder, suicide mention, depictions of death/violence, Willing-ish farmer (Optional read), forced infection,

I tried my best. I am a decent writer but am still learning :) Plus I was running out of creative juice around the end.

Elliott got infected from the mushrooms growing in his cabin due to the moist, humid environment. Seeing these mushrooms sparks him with artistic inspiration and he ends up spending a whole month cooped up in his cabin. What he didn’t know was that this wasn’t inspiration, but a sign of infection.

He ended up writing a novel about a forbidden romance between an obsessive stalker and their clueless neighbor. Issue was he could never figure out the perfect ending for it.

This caused him to wander out of his cabin just to see you for “Artistic inspiration”. In reality, he would copy the behavior of the main character and stalk you relentlessly. No matter where you went, he followed. To him, this was a romantic gesture that showed he was dedicated to his beloved.

It didn’t stop there though. He kept editing his story and soon it was less of a story and more of a journal about how he wanted to hunt you down. The main character was a self insert at this point and the neighbor was just you but with a different name. He wrote in detail all the ways he’d dispose of the people you called your “friends” of the gruesome ways the main character would kill off the people in the neighbor’s life and he even started to buy supplies “For inspiration”.

It all went downhill on one dark night in cindersap forest. He was excusing himself in his own mind by saying “I’m just here for Leah, but if the farmer’s home is nearby then it wouldn’t hurt to check on them”. That’s when he say you sitting on the dock with Shane and that alone made his blood boil. Spore buildup leaked from his mouth and eyes, the thick pink fluid oozing onto the ground as he watched helplessly.

He only walked away to go to his cabin. This wouldn’t do, he’d have to convince you Shane was unstable and unsuitable to be your partner.

The next day, he was surprised by you crying at his door. When he asked you what happened, all you did was fling yourself into his arms as you cried out

“It’s Shane! He’s dead!”

Elliott, bring a gentleman, guided you inside and had you sit down on his bed and explain everything. Turns out Shane hung himself last night, but Elliott already knew that and even had to stop himself from chuckling wide the small drops of spore buildup that tried to escape from his mouth.

He actually remembers the night before, but only in small chunks as he was blinded by his own rage. He remembers wrapping the rope around Shane’s neck, strangling him and watching as Shane flailed frantically. He remembered the desperate gasps for air and how his face changed from red to blue. In fact, he made sure to write it down for his novel.

This did temporarily satisfy his need to have you to himself as he got to hold you close and whisper sweet nothings into your ear, but you still left. You still ended up going to others who comforted you. This angered him. He should be the only one allowed to comfort you! He should be the only person who gets to see you in such a vulnerable state! Seeing you with others make his skin crawl… But that might just be the mushrooms that started to grow on his skin. Naturally he decided that everyone else needed to go.

His second target was Emily since she had the audacity to kiss you. Yes he knows it was because of the quest from Clint, he watched you accept it but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that way he decided to get rid of her.

The next day, Clint was detained. He was charged with first degree murder after killing Emily. The motive was said to be that Clint got overly jealous of Emily hanging out with others and killed her in a fit of rage with one of the swords he’d been working on.

Of course the real culprit was Elliott, who staged the whole event. It was quite easy too as he always overheard Clint trying desperately to admit his feeling to her and knew that a story of obsession was just as easy to tell in real life as it is in fiction.

He wasn’t satisfied though, as you were off hanging out with Sam for comfort. That was an even easier fix than before, he just had to go to Jojamart and push one of the heavy shelves on top of Sam while he was mopping. The most satisfying part was the sound of bones crunching mixed with his rehearsed scream of shock and terror.

Yet despite three deaths happening so soon… You always seemed to run to someone else. He needed you to himself, so he took more inspiration from his book and broke into your house.

“You really must invest in a lock for your home, my dear.”

Those were the last words you heard before you felt something hard hit the back of your head.

Next thing you know, you wake up tied to a chair in Elliott’s cabin. You think you’re alone until a figure emerges from the shadows.

Mushrooms with spotted heads in various shades of pink and red grew in patches on his skin. Some grew on his head with strands of hair weaving through them, while others tore through fabric and rested on shoulders.

“My love! You’re finally awake!”

Elliott says to you with a smile, teeth coated in a thick pink fluid that you cannot identify. His eyes were wide and staring straight at you in the same way a starving wolf stares at a weak rabbit. You felt strong hands grab onto your shoulders as Elliott leaned closer to your face.

“My beloved, I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long! I couldn’t stop thinking about you! I just had to take you for myself but you understand, right?”

Before you can even get a word in, he interrupts you with his rambling.

“Of course you do! You’ve always been understanding, even to people who don’t deserve it… People like Shane…”

You were pissed at this, but he interrupted you again.

“You know to me, his death was… Cathartic for me. It was soothing to watch the life leave his eyes as I strangled him, his squirming and struggling a display of how the animalistic mind will always fight to survive.”

It wasn’t a suicide. It was never a suicide. That alone helped you connect the dots; Every death was Elliott’s fault. Three people died because of him. But before you could fully process your emotions, Elliott leaned in closer with a smile and spoke once more.

“Now you have a choice to make; Will you be good and accept my love, live the rest of your life as my beloved spouse and stay with me forever? Or will I have to make you…”

If you choose to accept

With tears in your eyes, you nod and tell him that you’ll stay.

“Wise choice. Now, I’ll prepare our wedding after I finish up writing these last pages! We can move to your farm and start our new life there! But first…”

He stuck his fingers down his throat with a gag before pulling them back out; Finger coated in a thick pink fluid that had a gooey, sticky consistency to them.

“We have to become a bonded pair. You’ll be infected by me and in turn, we’ll be inseparable! This is just spores, don’t worry my love!”

You could feel one hand force your mouth open as wide as it could go. His slick fingers rubbed your throat and mouth with the spores with care, causing you to gag and cough. He only pulled away once all the fluid was off of his fingers and down your throat.

“There we go! Now we’re inseparable!”

If you choose to decline

You scream at him that he’s a monster and that you’d never date someone as terrible as him, thrashing against your restraints frantically. As you do this, he takes off a book from his desk and opens it up to the last few pages.

“Oh my beloved, do you see this? These are the blank pages meant for my latest novel. It was inspired by us my dear! I could never figure out the best ending to give us…”

You could see his smile turn into a grimace as he continues,

“But you ruined it. We could’ve had a happy ending where we lived together as a happy couple, gotten married, and maybe had a kind of two if you wanted… But you had to choose the wrong answer…”

Elliott started to make his way over to you, footsteps echoing throughout the small cabin before he stopped in front of you.

“But I’m not doing that. I’m not accepting this answer.”

As he said this, you watched him pull out a switchblade out from his pocket and a sharp pain went through your stomach. Blood gushed from the wound, only gushing more and more as he dragged the knife upward and allowed your organs to spill out without a care to the mess it made.

“I’ll just make you comply! You’ll just have to sit there and look pretty for me… Right?”

You could feel your eyelids grow heavy, sudden sharp pains from Elliott hollowing out your body being one of the few things reminding you that you’re not dead yet. But that was cut short as you felt blood drain out of you and your vital organs being yanked out carelessly. This would be the day you die.

—————

Elliott hummed to himself as he messed with the sewing kit he took that was hidden away in the farmer’s home, blood still staining his hands as he sewed up the large cut that laid on the corpse’s abdomen. He’d never been good at sewing but that didn’t matter to him.

“Just a few more stitches and… There! All better!”

He gave a crooked smile as he stared at the farmer’s corpse with wide eyes, pink fluid from the spore buildup leaking out of his eyes and down his cheeks.

“You look good as new! Perfect!”

The corpse looked nothing like the farmer he loved. It was covered in the fungus that infected him and the attempt to stitched up wounds only made the injuries look worse. But Elliott barely noticed this, as the fungi were messing with his brain to the point where he couldn’t tell the difference.

This was his happy ending. This was the perfect ending for them. He was happy.

He was happy.

#stardew valley #stardew valley headcanons #sdv headcanons #elliott stardew valley #Elliott sdv

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acidicbarkbeast · 8 months

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prompt: wings wordcount: 5.1k wordcount rule: any cw: dialogue of self-sacrifice and self-worth issues

Ao3

And I pray the supernova of death takes no one but myself.

...

There was never enough tension beneath the surface of his skin to truly break through.

A part of him, of fear and an opposition to change, was grateful for it. Another, one that shouldered the weight of bodies with legs growing weaker by the year, still naively believed that his mere presence could have made a difference, could have impacted the lives around him like a meteorite would, crashing into a planet.

Instead, he hovered more like a comet; beautiful but useless and far away. He would jump in to take the hits when needed, be the impenetrable wall that he’d grown to be known for, and then veer off when the danger died down. He would return to his natural course of orbit, watching, waiting, the loyal sentry that he was.

Still, he felt it bubbling underneath. On the outside, he was a dusty trail to follow and admire, maps of constellations printed down his back, a bright twinkle in his eye, something old and knowing beyond his age. His gravity would steal those around him like fish to a shiny lure, enamored with his unnatural charm.

On the inside, he was painted midnight blues and shimmering golds. He was unimaginable, purely abstract, something that could burn you blind. He ran so hot he felt cold, searing white like the sun. He knew all too well that he was dangerous, knew all too well how easy it was to hurt others if he really wanted.

But he didn’t.

Like a lion who let the mice pass him by, he got his face caved in year after year, an aching reminder of his painful mortality. Hurting people was hard because it was so easy. He could melt flesh from bone with the warm palm of his hand, pummel craters into all-too-delicate skin, cut with words sharp like the arms of a flame.

His existence alone was a walking contradiction. In the same way he never should have been born, he wasn’t supposed to know all of these impossible things. None of it made much sense, but to Steve Harrington, that sentiment wasn't at all new or surprising.

Which was why, floating in the endless expanse of voidless sleep, it was unfortunate he had to lose so much of what little he already had. Hurtling through the merciless planes of frigid space, it was inevitable for one to crack under the sheer velocity of flight. Pieces would fracture and drift, disappear into the lit black.

He dumbly stumbled upon danger around every corner, and yet avoided the mass destruction he was capable of. Another contradiction. Why, if he was so intent on protecting the vulnerable, would he contain his greatness? His gift born from the cosmos, which could tear reality from its very hinges?

It was fear. It always came down to fear. Cowardice. For all a willing martyr he laid himself to be, he feared the decided end that came with death like the sharp of a knife.

What did it speak of him, guilty of not wanting to die so soon?

But guilt and fear mattered not in the true face of death’s mockery, a twisted mess of anger and revenge, once a person, now a vessel for ruthless violence. Nothing mattered actually, not when so many lives were at stake, and certainly not when he would outlive the end of the world anyway. And an empty world was worse than dying young, he had found.

Death was fair, this was not. Simple as that.

In the end, the choice was clear and obvious, both easy said and easy done, a small, quiet mercy in the middle of all the noise and chaos. He wasn’t worried about the aftermath, or of the emotional downfall that, in his life-long spiral, didn’t seem possible. Above all else, he wasn't worried about his own future, if he ever had one to begin with, solely focused on the red hell unraveling before his eyes.

In the end, they won, and they lost.

He lost so much, shot to the far corners of the universe, telling himself over and over again, there was no need to worry.

...

The sweet caress of the dream was forgiving, motherly almost, in soft touches and whispered lullabies. Feeling was an afterthought, a distant memory not to be bothered with. In a dream, there was no whole being, only mirror fragments reflecting onto each other, an echo chamber where everything was everything else in return.

It was an immaterial world, a wash of color, pale and waterlogged. Something that flowed into every small crevice, flowing through all matter itself, an encompassing rich, amber warmth like honey in the summertime. Though liquid, the bright body was alive with chatter, the mutterings of kings and queens long lost to the fabric of space and time.

He had no such voice, silent in his aimless drifting. He had no thoughts to ponder, no fears to worry, no faces to remember, and no names to forget. Another screw in the machine of being, a single diamond in a crown of many, a ghost, a soldier: simply an idea.

But his whirling mosaic of a heart that wandered and longed, that never sat still enough to capture the nebula in painting, must have caught the ear of some goddess, for his next breath flew stars from his mouth into a blue ocean where once was black void.

“Aren’t you peculiar?” The giant exhaled in old, out-of-practice wonder “Singing so wantingly and mournfully that your song has reached the depths of my throne.”

Her eyes were swirling pits of sun-warmed onyx, smooth and cutting, as she twinkled into corporeal existence, crinkling around the edges with amusement. Her spectral presence surrounded him wholly, cradling his blurry form forever twisting with unrest.

“This isn’t your home, hm? You’ve swung out of alignment, dear,” She cooed, and the low croon was like a humid, august breeze on his invisible flesh, flashing in his mind honeyed curls and sun-kissed freckles, bronze-brown feathers soft with downy. The goddess soared away from him suddenly, the halo of galaxies crowded behind her rocking with the movement, “Or maybe… Is it everyone else who’s gone a bit crooked?”

Tracing his skin still tender from the collapse of his implosion, she smiled something small, like fleeting knowing glances shared between friends, “You’ve made a tremendous journey, but it would be cruel to keep you here.”

Her slender fingers pressed into his wax exterior, digging like at wet sand on spanning beach shores, to reveal his mottled body underneath, bruised from war. He writhed in the momentary, excruciating pain, crystalline branches of light convulsing in fear. It was a feeling new and old, lost but now found, as he was molded into something habitable by a soul.

The fluttering limbs protruding from his back were the last to be shaped, as the merciful goddess blew stardust into his hair and laughed something loud and breathless, leaning closer to whisper into his ear, “Go on now, young star, and find the paradise that settles that beating heart of yours.”

Flung from heaven, his plummet to earth was artless and turbulent. Tears would've been shed if not for the fire of his falling. Misty clouds cleared for his torrid arrival like curtains parting for a grand show, leaving a tail of white smoke in his wake. The ground below came at impossible speeds, so fast he braced to punch through to the molten core within.

The next he opened his eyes, it was to the unfurling of mighty pine branches, their needles singed black in the catching of his fall. Charcoaled grass haloed his angelic form; sacrificial. His first lungful of air was greedy and sharp, dragging on the phantom stitching of his throat. Faint seams melted into the flesh of him, until his fabrication could no longer be seen. One deep exhale, and he was settled into his body.

He rose on shaking legs, having grown used to the weightlessness of the world between life and death, as peanut butter brown wings instinctively spread behind him to keep his balance. In the cold, the feathers hugged his body close, shivering at the new feeling. He began his trek out of the woods as the sun set in orange and purple rays, casting the trees in a postcard fog. His bare feet soon found the gritty pavement of a road, and he followed it down in a direction that felt right. He couldn’t name where it was taking him, but it felt familiar.

By the time he reached the second house that he couldn’t knock at despite wanting to, the soles of his feet were bloody and beaded with rocks. It was the most he’d felt since the fall, and he couldn’t find it in him to be bothered, not when any sensation at all was a blessing. He kept walking, gazing longingly at dark windows and bikes strewn on lawns. His chest ached for things lost, but they were just that: lost.

And lost things could be found.

The last house led him back into the forest, down a dirt path and to a rickety deck of old wood. Sparing the quiet residence a glance, he continued past it, letting the trees tell him where to go. Deeper in, he came upon something smaller, a tent of sorts, and the letters swam as he deciphered them: Castle Byers.

Each location slotted itself in his mind, and the emotions attached to them sang around him, hanging on the air and flowing through his veins. They were all homes in their own right, but they weren’t his home. That, at least, he knew very well.

As the sky grew dark, and the white moon slowly soared overhead, his eyes drooped with growing fatigue. A fear buried within himself made itself known, that it would be unsafe to sleep in the woods, not without the light of the sun, so he kept himself moving. There was something on the cool, night breeze, like smoke and mint. Something about it told him that it would keep him safe in the darkness, and he trusted the feeling wholeheartedly.

What other choice did he have?

The thumping of the music could be heard on the wind, indiscernible and unimportant. His charge was closer than that, somewhere nearer than the smell of cheap alcohol and the sound of people cheering in whooping successions. Whatever had pulled him here was stumbling toward him all on its own, so he decided to wait.

Waiting proved fruitful, and in only a few minutes, he heard approaching footfalls, and the coughing of a not-so-strange stranger. His wings fanned out on either side of him, expectant and eager, excited.

Out from a pine’s shadow, a boy stepped from cover of trees, revealing a pale face of shock. Something about him struck the fallen star as slightly off: soft cheeks too round, night-black hair too short, big, brown eyes swimming with wonder and curiosity and lacking that sharpness of fear. He was drawn to him entirely and helplessly.

“Holy fucking shit. Dude.” The boy muttered, lips parted and dumb with disbelief, “Who spiked my fucking drink, no way those are real.”

The newcomer’s rings and chains caught moonlight in their divots, twinkling in ways he’d only assumed the vast cosmos could. The leaf litter beneath his bleeding feet crinkled as he shifted his weight from the nerves. Impossibly wide eyes, deep as ocean trenches, were locked onto him and him alone. It was both terrifying and thrilling: it felt like power.

"What are you?" The boy asked, dropping his solo cup, and spilling the rest of its contents in the grass. He didn’t seem to notice, closing the space between them in an awestruck daze. That’s not to say the star wasn’t equally as enamored, endeared by the stranger’s gangly limbs and messy, shoulder-length hair. He would do anything to run a brush through the tangled strands, or better yet, his fingers.

“I'm—” “An angel.” He was interrupted with a breathless whisper, and the boy took up his hands in his own calloused ones, examining them. It tingled where their skin met, like their very molecules were excitedly greeting each other, “You gotta be. Holy shit, oh my fucking god— I mean! Am I even allowed to say that?”

“I don’t—?” “Angelic, indeed.” He bit his lip, shoulders slowly hiking up around his ears, his intense gaze flitting from the shooting star’s fluffy hair, to his big, honest eyes, the freckled moles on his face, his neck, his arms, “You’re… You are… Hm.”

The taller’s pale complexion flushed a sunburnt red, seemingly stunned into frustrated silence. He dropped their hands in favor of hiding his face behind a lock of dark, shaggy hair, huffing a long, suffering sigh, brows furrowed and mouth thin. He was worth pitying.

"I'm Steve," he said, finally, and the boy lit up instantly with newfound mischief.

"Steve… Steve," he drawled, drawing on the syllable almost melodically, "Steven. I don't think I know of any angel Steven in the Bible." He stuck one ring-clad hand out then, grinning enough to show teeth and crinkling his eyes along with it, "I'm Eddie! Eddie Munson. You have a last name, Steve?"

He didn’t, not that he knew of. There had been a house, a mansion, a cold cavern of a home, situated at the top of a hill, at the end of a street. It was as lonely as it was detached from the neighbors. It was a husk as much as he had been before the goddess granted him new life, though the empty building, he thought, would never have that same chance. He felt that there was a name once, attached to the house and to himself, but that name was lost with his sacrifice: a casualty of war.

Steve shook his head, smiling innocently, “Would you give me one?”

Whatever composure Eddie had gathered before completely disappeared as he stammered, newly flustered, “You want—? You cannot just, just—!” He let loose a single, startled laugh, the nervous and uncontrollable kind, like the ringing pop of a firework, and then covered his face with his hands, “Forget it. Steve: Single name, like Cher.”

Burning, that was what it was. Eddie’s face was burning, the apples of his cheeks glowing with the exuberance of a cherry’s skin. Steve was alive with the bright hue, finding it alluring. He wanted to fan the flame and watch it roar, blow onto the wick, and cup the maplewood smoke between his palms. In that very moment, he knew, without much room for deliberation or error, that he would not be able to forget a boy like Eddie. Not ever again.

And that was a sudden revelation, something rocking like calm ocean waves, subtle, excusable. He had forgotten once before, a time he could no longer remember now. It disturbed him to think that he could lose a face like Eddie’s.

What else was he missing?

“You know,” Eddie said, “It seems a little counterproductive for God to send one of his prettiest angels to someone so… How should I say, prone to sin?”

“I wasn’t sent by a god.” Steve corrected simply, large wings fluttering proudly behind him, thinking of what a privilege it was, to live as a gift from the goddess of the abyss. He saw how Eddie’s eyes followed their swaying movements, and he only felt the urge to further preen, hoping to relieve some unknown feeling in his heart.

“But you were sent?” Invading his space, Eddie was enjoyably close to him again, and Steve held himself from concealing them both under cover of long feathers. It went unnoticed, “For what, pray tell?”

For paradise, he thought. That is what he was sent to find, a small heaven of his own to claim, to settle him, as the goddess had instructed. He almost saw a paradise of someplace in Eddie's sparkling eyes, practically radiating mirth and childlike curiosity. But it was more an island, small and submerged, something to grow and be discovered with time. Steve reasoned, that is what love must be like.

“To find someone.” He condensed. It was easier than explaining the invisible light that drew them together, a fickle but everlasting thing, beyond them both. Steve couldn’t explain it to himself even if he tried, he simply understood.

Eddie nodded, turning away. He snatched his forgotten cup from the ground as he spoke, “Maybe I can help you find this someone?”

Steve smiled sweetly, “I would like that.”

Blushing, Eddie gingerly took his hand and started leading him away from the noise of the party. His palm and fingers were cold in his own, but Steve could be warm enough for the both of them. He could be warm enough to heat a home, a whole town, and to keep her people from the harm of the outside. He will be a respite to the weary and tired, the bright stars above bringing night, and the peaceful allure of sleep.

“You’re not gonna find any person out this late, not unless this person was at that rager,” Eddie quipped, screwing his mouth to the side distastefully, “And I sincerely hope they weren’t, no offense to whoever it is you’re looking for.”

“Why’s that?”

Eddie huffed something unamused, mocking, “They’re all halfwit jocks looking for a quick, good time. Not the kind of people who’d deserve— who you’d want to hang out with.” The dark-haired boy’s cheeks reddened at his near-slip, and Steve had half a mind to guess what he was going to say. Steve was smitten, to say the least.

“But you were there.” He teased.

Spluttering, Eddie straightened up, “Yeah, yeah, I was. I was, uh—” He coughed into his fist, and Steve watched his throat bob with the audible gulp that came afterward, “I was selling to the hungry masses. It’s just this… New, modest business I’m trying out, flexible hours and all.” He became more serious, tone growing contemptuous, “I’ve gotta make a living somehow, and no one’s hiring the sixteen-year-old devil worshiper.”

Steve wasn’t all too aware of what the devil was, and what being associated with such a figure could mean, but he wasn’t too pressed about it. After all, he trusted himself more than the judgment of others, and if danger were to face him, the light that lived within his chest would burn all that threatened him. For some reason, the thought and feel of phantom flames was a comfort in the dark, keeping him safe from otherworldly monsters that no longer walked this earth. He would be sure to keep it that way, as well.

“Next time,” Eddie continued on a lighter note, “I won’t get so shitfaced, messes with my head. I’m… Still trying to decide if you’re real or not.”

Steve found Eddie’s breathless and nervous show of teeth charming. He squeezed his hand in reassurance, “I’m real.”

“Yeah…” Steve’s hand was squeezed back, “Yeah, you’re real. All of you is real.” Eddie glanced at the set of wings trailing behind them, at the way one hovered slightly over his jean-clad shoulder, as if protectively, “Do you have a place to go? To stay?”

He couldn’t very well return to that cosmic heaven, now could he? At least, not through any practical means. He shook his head minutely, “No. I fell here.”

“Right, right.” Eddie nodded, “Fell. Angel. Duh.” Laughing a little, he knocked the heel of his palm against his forehead. It was cute. He looked at Steve then, painfully earnest, “You should stay with me. I mean— Would you like to stay with me…?” His voice deepened into something of a rumble, “Many unsavory folk lurking at this late hour of night.”

“What does that say about you?” Steve laughed, and to save Eddie from any more embarrassed stumbling, simply agreed, “I’ll follow your lead.”

With the moon to guide them, they trekked quietly through the woods. He would catch Eddie’s eye a few times, not that he wasn’t also sneaking glances at the boy when he wasn’t looking. He enjoyed the game, almost as much as he enjoyed the blush high on those round cheeks whenever Eddie was caught staring.

Eventually, the trees broke into soft porch lights and yellow-lit windows. It wasn’t the kind of silence of the woods or the far-away singing of stars, but Steve liked it all the same. It was proof of life, in musical chimes and mutterings and barking dogs. He thought, with time, he would learn to fall asleep to this new, lively ambiance.

Eddie ushered him into the trailer three porches down, his wings catching on the doorframe in their haste. Apologies were thrown his way as Eddie skipped into the tiny kitchen pulling two mugs off the adjacent wall and setting a pot of water on the stove to boil.

“Do you like hot chocolate?” The boy asked him, “Better question; Are you cold? I can see why wearing a shirt might be difficult for you, but I feel like the weather warrants a little more than an old pair of sweatpants.” His eyes moved over him, coming to his bare feet, “Christ! Are you bleeding?”

“Oh, your floors,” Steve realized, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry!” Eddie waved him off, “You’ve been walking barefoot for God knows how long. Why didn’t you just fly or something?”

He couldn’t say the thought hadn’t crossed his mind at some point, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Why would he fly when the people he cared about were all stuck on the ground?

Taking a seat on the worn-soft couch as Eddie fetched a box of aid supplies from the bathroom, he took a moment to observe the trailer’s interior. It was homey, close, comfortable in a way where everything was in reach. The lights were yellowed, and the walls cluttered with color, and on the table was a framed photo of Eddie and an older man, each holding up silvery fish under a bright sunny day.

“Hey,” Eddie breathed, sliding to his knees in front of Steve, “‘You okay?”

He didn’t think he could be any more okay, “Mhm.”

“This is going to sting,” The older teen warned, padding the down cuts with an alcohol wipe. He winced in sympathy, saying, “I’ve gotta make sure there’s nothing wedged in there.”

While it did hurt, it was less than what he was expecting. His remaking at the hands of the goddess had been excruciating, terrifying, tearing into the core of his very being.

By contrast, these cuts were nothing more than a silly nuisance.

In pleasant quiet, Eddie wrapped his feet in gauze, securing the bandages tight so they couldn't budge. He pulled a pair of orange, cat-eared slippers from behind him, holding them up like his younger self did the fish in the photo.

"I got you these," He said seriously, "And don't laugh. I know they look absurd, but they're a gift from my uncle."

"Your uncle," Steve repeated, pointing, "He's the man with you in the picture?"

Eddie made a noise of confusion, looking behind him. A soft smile grew on his face when he realized, "Oh, yeah. That's good ol' Uncle Wayne. He takes me fishing in the summertime."

He looked at Steve then with that same softness, if a bit inquisitive, "Hey, did you want a blanket or something?"

"What for?"

"Well, you never got to answer my question earlier, if you were cold?" He tilted his head, "The trailer gets a bit chilly at night, especially this time of year, and I don't think I have anything that'll fit over your wings, sweetheart."

The pet name seemed to involuntarily fall from Eddie's lips, both of the boys turning red. For his sake, Steve didn’t mention it, instead concentrating, “I think I can— Let me just,” As his focus narrowed to the muscles of his back, he almost imagined tucking his large wings under cover, like folding them onto themselves again and again. There was a faint swooping sound, overshadowed by Eddie’s gasp, and his wings disappeared in the next second, leaving behind only a few stray feathers fluttering idly in the air.

“What the hell was that!?” The metalhead exclaimed.

Steve peeked over his shoulder, marveling at the empty space. He could still feel them, pressing under his skin, waiting patiently for when they’ll next be needed.

Eddie looked at him incredulously, “You could do that the whole time?”

“Could I have?” Steve asked with mock-innocence, “I don’t know.”

“Steven, in my home no less—” He was interrupted by a loud, sudden onslaught of popping. His head shot up at the sound of the angry bubbling, “Shit. Shit, shit—”

Cursing, he scrambled to the kitchen, quickly taking the pot off the burner. He poured two sweet-smelling cups of hot chocolate, carrying them gingerly to the main room’s low table. Steve took his in his hands and contendly breathed in the wafting steam.

"Woah, Woah! It's still boiling, buddy—" Eddie called in alarm when Steve brought the drink to his lips. It was scorching, and he hummed happily as the intense heat flowed throughout his limbs like slow-spilling magma, tingling at the tips of his fingers.

He smiled appreciatively, "It's good."

Mouth agape, Eddie stared at him, until he shook himself out of it, saying absently, "Yeah. No problem, man."

Unconsciously, the star’s eyes drifted to that photo, considering the older man again, Uncle Wayne. He couldn’t help but wonder, worrying for the first real time that night, if the stranger would allow him to take refuge here, in his home. He had no connection to this man, not like he did Eddie, and so, Wayne would have no reason to let him stay.

“Hey,” The dark-haired teen said gently, now back in front of Steve, though this time with a navy, wool sweatshirt in hand, “You went somewhere. ‘You okay?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Will your uncle be okay with me being here?”

“Wayne?” Eddie tilted his head, something Steve noticed he did a lot, “He won’t mind. Not unless you bring any trouble home, that’s what he tells me. If you get into trouble, leave it at the door,” He seemed to mime the clearing of a table with a sweep of his arm, chuckling quietly to himself. Steve tried to focus on the sound, and not the little worm in the back of his brain, whispering some riddle of irony and tragedy.

He couldn’t understand it, not anymore, not that he wished to, anyway.

Absently, he shrugged on the sweatshirt, but it wasn’t quite enough.

Eddie must have read the off look on his face as doubt, and tried to remedy the situation, getting up in Steve’s space as he spoke, “Hey, why don’t we watch a movie or something? Get you settled in, relaxed…?” For a moment, he trailed off into his thoughts, then returned to the star with wide, sparkling eyes, “Oh, I know exactly what we’re watching. I’m gonna get you hooked on all the good shit, Stevie.”

He raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but Eddie gave no further explanation as he excitedly hopped off the couch. Steve wasn’t so keen on getting hooked on anything a person with Eddie’s… Particular reputation had to offer, but then he had to stop and think about what such a reputation might be. After all, they’d only just met, hadn’t they?

The television buzzed to life, humming some whining frequency that only Steve seemed to hear, and effectively distracting him from the muddy puddle of his memories.

Clamoring back onto the cushions, Eddie pulled a blanket over the both of them, bashfully excusing their consequent closeness. Its material threaded the line between soft and itchy, dark, autumnal stripes criss-crossing over a lighter background. The colors reminded him of fallen leaves set ablaze by the morning sun, the worsening nightly chill, and rows of dirty, orange pumpkins carved into a myriad of frightening expressions.

His skin crawled at the image of vast pumpkin fields, as a phantom rot pervaded his nose, and he shivered.

Eddie noticed, had probably felt it from where they brushed arms, looking over with a radiant smile, “‘You excited? You’re gonna love The Hobbit, I just know it.” Then he tilted his head again, his face morphing into something closer to an impish grin, “And if you don’t, well, we’ll sit and watch it a million times over until you do.”

“I don’t know why, but I believe that,” Steve said, the corners of his lips turning up on their own accord. Eddie cackled, and the star’s heart basked in the hot glory of it.

Still, Steve only had half a mind to watch the film, bothered by the ghostly touches that breathed down tanned flesh, the niggling, nipping thoughts that begged him to remember, to live a life having been led in someone else’s shoes. His wings pressed against their cage of bone and muscle, itching to be free. He held them back.

Hopefully, there would be answers shed in the light of day, where the lives of these people would walk from shadow and slumber. Steve’s eyes flickered, twitched, blinked into some other world which was bathed in red and smelled of loss, for just a second.

The vision left him as quick as it had appeared, and he was thrown back into his body, sitting next to Eddie as he talked about the little characters moving around on-screen. From under the covers, Steve found the other boy’s hand, holding it tight. The chatter died with a short stutter, as a warmth blossomed between them.

He knew from that moment on that he would never let go of Eddie’s hand, not if he could help it, for fear of ever losing him again. Even with him however, Steve did not feel whole, and he knew instinctively that the missing pieces of himself were both close and so far away, both a neighbor and a journey’s distance from this small town.

Tucking his legs to his chest, he kept his gaze fixed onto the television, not turning to Eddie, who he could feel was undoubtedly staring with blushing cheeks.

Yes, he would hold tight onto this nice thing that he’d stumbled upon. Come morning, he would worry about the future, but for now, he was overcome by a sudden exhaustion, the weight of efforts forgotten settling onto his young bones like fresh snow. Tiredly, he wondered if forgotten was the right word, if it fit this feeling of longing in his chest, or if taken would be better.

These efforts, the memories, which were not lost, but left behind, as a price paid in the face of restarting, had pulled and scraped on their way from his mind, like chalk dust clouding from a black board, leaving only flashes of the past that slipped from his fingers in a dream.

He squeezed Eddie’s hand, and Eddie squeezed his in answer.

He would not be alone.

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #angel wings #fallen angel #meet cute #fanfiction #writing #barkbeastwriting

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djrenard · 2 years

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Titans East (a post-Dark Crisis on Infinite Earths team):

Thoughts: Operating out of Nightwing’s bunkers on the East Coast, a small community of Titans protect the most vulnerable as they gather around millionaire philanthropist Dick Grayson’s Haven outreach in urban centers. I’d love to see the We Are Robin kids again, The Movement, The Green Team, and Gotham Academy alumni. The Terror Titans and their meta-human fighting rings would present worthy conflict for the team.

Bunker (Miguel Barragan) will take the psychological barriers that he’s internalized and literally throw them in your face, brick by brick. He defines his own barriers, makes them true…and then tears them down when he gets bored.

The Signal: Duke Thomas just knows what he needs to be doing; exposing injustice, inconsistencies, and lies; shining a light on what others might overlook.

Bolt (Alinta) sprints away from her trauma filled past. Ever looking forward and never quite settled, she throws herself into her new identity before properly dealing with the betrayals of her past.

Blue Jay II (Jack Abrams): His father (Jay Abrams) is an avian, size-changing, multiversal traveler. His mother is a deserter of the Thanagarian special forces. Together they’re an unlikely couple who found love and hid it away in the heart of America.

Indigo (Brainiac 8): For the fourth time she has pieced herself back together. This time however, she chooses to exercise her creator’s hold over her in the process. Will it take? Can she be trusted? Yeah. She’s actually a pretty decent person.

Red Devil (Eddie Bloomberg) chose to change his physical form to better match how he felt on the inside, and he has zero patience for the shame you lobe his way. He does have a sense of humor about it though.

Chlorophyll Kid (Ral Benem) is a joke in the future, the 31st century to be exact, but he’s willing to put in the work to change that opinion. While searching for other plant elementals to guide him and to grow his power, he instead finds a whole community willing to nurture him.

Stitch sees the wider view of things, how it all comes together…but how do they fit into that grand design?

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cuteniarose · 1 year

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can you plz infodump about your ocs?? so new people to your blog can understand them

Hey, anon? I hope you know that this ask is the best one I’ve gotten in all my 3 1/2 years on this hellsite, so thank you!! You really don’t need to know about my OCs to follow this blog cause a) I post once in a blue moon nowadays, and b) it’s rarely about my OCs, BUT SINCE YOU ASKED-

K, so, my main OCs are Suiren and Midori, sisters who just so happen to be Ghazan and Ming-Hua’s daughters. They were 7 and 4 respectively when their parents were imprisoned for trying to kidnap Korra, which led to them being placed in the ‘care’ of Ghazan’s older sister, Haya. What happens to them after that? Well, you’d have to be more specific, since I have about a trillion different AUs featuring them. The two most important ones (aka the ones written down) are:

1. Seeds of the Red Lotus. The very first fic I wrote about them, which I... haven’t updated in two years. It currently stands at 5 chapters BUT I am in the process of rewriting and continuing it. The basic concept is that the girls grow up in utter misery under Haya’s iron fist, and in a desperate attempt to get enough money to leave and live a happy, comfortable life somewhere else, Suiren becomes an assassin at the bright old age of 17. Fast forward 6 years, and Team Avatar, unable to take down the Earth Empire on their own, hire her to kill Kuvira

2. Under the Oak’s Shade. A rather self indulgent AU written as a form of catharsis and spiritual healing. Six months into living with Haya, the girls are taken in by Zhi, a cranky lesbian with a bad sense of direction/P’Li’s firebending teacher from the Red Lotus/my friend @katkastrofa‘s OC from her fic Lost and Found (which, unlike the multichaps I write, is complete and you should go read it immediately). Once I pull myself together to actually figure out how the next instalment in the series should go, this will, most likely, eventually become a Red Lotus Korra AU, which I’m definitely looking forward to writing.

Now that the basics are out of the way, let’s get to actual infodumping about my two precious cinnamon rolls. Most of this info is from SotRL-verse, as that is the main story I’ve got about them, so keep that in mind

Suiren:

23 years old as of 174 AG. Master waterbender and deadly assassin. Cold, calculating and precise in everything she does, leaving no room for error. Takes no shit from anyone, is fiercely defensive and independent, and is the last person to ever accept any help or charity. Confident in her abilities and borderline cocky at times, a lot of which is a front. Extremely short tempered, nihilistic, cynical and high strung, not willing to let anyone get close enough to her to see her hidden vulnerabilities

She wasn’t always like this. A long time ago, back before she lost her parents, she was much, much softer, kinder and more gentle. Her parents called her their little water lily, and the nickname suited her well. However, P’Li’s nickname for her was ‘my little firecracker’, so she very much still had quite a temper even back then. Overall, she was a happy little girl with bright eyes and a mischievous smile who was determined to excel in her waterbending lessons. She was Ming-Hua’s pride and joy. 16 years of taking the brunt of Haya’s anger to shield her sister, as well as destroying the part of herself that wouldn’t let her mindlessly do the bidding of whoever paid her, changed her, perhaps irreversibly.

Her old life still haunts her, though. Genetics played a cruel joke on her – the silky black hair reaching below her waist, the angular features, the prominent cheekbones, the (relatively) short height – it all serves to make her see her mother every single time she glances in the mirror. Being just like her mother was something she once aspired to, but now follows her like a curse. Even the things she got from her dad, dark skin and golden brown eyes, don’t help, and just make her look like Haya, especially when she’s angry

There is another side to her that no one but Midori gets to see. She may not be as soft as sixteen years ago, but she is still capable of love and gentleness. She loves her sister more than anything else in life, has already killed and would die for her. She is very protective of Midori (though often to a fault). She hugs her tight and kisses her forehead and cheeks, quietly sings her (their mother’s) lullabies as she calms her down from a nightmare, heals any and all her wounds, tells her stories of their parents, always puts her first no matter how pained and exhausted she herself is... In short, Suiren took on the role of a self sacrificing parent a long time ago and has played it well

Suiren is a distinguished lesbian but can’t keep a partner longer than a few weeks. Girls fawn all over her, but once they see past the pretty face and confident demeanour and notice everything wrong with her, they run (which only serves to make Suiren’s abandonment issues worse). She has taken to sticking to one night stands when she needs an outlet for her frustrations, convinced she will never have, and isn’t deserving of, a long lasting, loving relationship

She struggles severely with her mental health, constantly plagued by what she has done. She tries to limit her sleep to avoid nightmares that she knows will come and represses all emotions except for anger as that is the safest to latch onto and channel into killing. She is almost always on edge and feels pressure mounting with every single day. Very prone to overstimulation when it comes to noise, light and people. The only times she ever relaxes (or, at least, pretends to) is when she’s alone with Midori or with Lotus, her pet sabertooth moose lion.

To sum up: the poor girl is a vessel for my trauma and deserves a 30 hour nap, a hug, a warm blanket, the whole world and her parents back

Midori:

20 years old as of 174 AG. Earthbender, though not very good at it. She discovered her earthbending only a few months before losing her parents, and had no one to teach her since then. She is naturally kindhearted and hardworking, always trying to help out where she can and seem useful. Quiet and anxious, she prefers to stick to the background and draw as little attention to herself as possible (which is in fact a defence mechanism against Haya’s treatment of her but, y’know, let’s not get into that rn)

Sixteen years ago, Midori was a bright and happy little girl, wanting nothing more than for everyone around her to be happy as well. Always full of energy, she could talk and ramble for hours about anything that crossed her mind. Just as mischievous as her sister, she knew she was the baby of the family and could get away with anything, though to her credit, she didn’t abuse that much. Her parents called her their little Seedling, the youngest of them all so full of potential and eager to grow and make her parents proud. P’Li often called her a cuddlebug for her affectionate nature (am I stealing that from Kat’s fic bc it made me scream into my pillow for five minutes straight? Maybe. You can’t prove anything).

In present age, she’s a lot more similar to her childhood self than Suiren is. She doesn’t talk that much anymore, if at all, and her happiness is often clouded by the harsh world around her, but some of that cheerfulness still shines through, especially when she’s alone with Suiren or with Tenzin’s kids. The energy once used for rambling and chasing butterflies and racing with her sister is now almost always redirected into chores and housework, though if Suiren offered, she’d gladly race her again (and probably win tbh, her legs are longer and Renny prefers faster methods than running)

She doesn’t remember her parents well, and their faces have blurred beyond recognition in her mind. It’s why her appearance doesn’t affect her as much as Renny’s own does her. She’s not a carbon copy of either of her parents like Suiren is, she’s more of an even mix. She knows what Suiren had told her, that she has their mother’s eyes and their father’s nose, but can’t piece anything together in her head. She keeps her hair, as dark and silky as Suiren’s, though thicker, at shoulder length, a bit uneven in places as she cuts it herself. As a child, Ghazan would tie her hair into twin pigtails every morning and she never let anyone else do it. She hasn’t styled her hair in any way since she took those pigtails out before going to bed the night their parents left

A disaster bisexual, proven by the fact that out of all people in the world, she falls for Opal Beifong. You know, the step sister of the woman Midori’s sister has to kill (or die trying), and the daughter of the woman who killed Midori’s beloved auntie P’Li. Yeah, tough case. Anyway, turns out, there is a limited supply of Ghazan’s charm in his genetic code and it all got passed down to Renny, because ‘Dori herself turns into an awkward mess whenever the opportunity to flirt arises. It’s fine though, Opal still finds her adorable. Also she probably had a small crush on Bolin when they first met, but that was because he was one of the only people her age to be nice to her and she got over it quickly

Remember how I said she was quiet and anxious? Yeah, understatement of the century. Her anxiety follows her around throughout her day and is the driving force behind all of her decisions. Many things, from raised voices to passive aggressiveness to bad moods to unfinished housework, can trigger it. When it does, she clams up and curls in on herself, but tries her best to deescalate or rectify the situation. She’s also very sensitive to any kind of conflict, even when she’s not part of it. Midori also worries a lot for Suiren while she’s away on missions, as she knows she’ll completely fall apart if something were to happen to Renny. She has nightmares about it often, almost every night that Suiren is not there. Little does she know, Suiren has similar worries over losing her.

Another big thing is her major inferiority complex. She looks at her big sister and sees someone who has always been talented, powerful and capable. Someone who can do so many things without even breaking a sweat. Someone who has girls fawning all over her. And then ‘Dori looks at herself and sees none of those things. She doesn’t hate Suiren for it, not at all, but tiny inklings of disdain sometimes take form. She tries hard to ignore it, but often can do nothing but listen to those thoughts swirl around in her head.

In summary: An anxious mess of a girl who is in desperate need of a proper support system and someone (*cough* Opal *cough*) who could assure her that she is enough and that it doesn’t matter if she isn’t like her sister, she’s perfect just the way she is

If you want me to elaborate on any of this (and this goes for everyone, not just anon) my askbox is always open and my desire to infodump about my precious traumatised babies never wavers

#oops this took me over a month to finish typing out lmao sorry #if you see any typos no you don’t #it’s almost 2 am give me a break #but no really so many concepts so few promptings to spill them all out in an infodump tsunami #talk to me about my OCs please I promise their story is interesting #if it’s sounds like a weird wattpad novel in places that’s because I was 12 when I came up with them #it almost was a wattpad novel #okay okay I’m done I’m going to bed now bye #original characters #seeds of the red lotus #sotrl suiren #sotrl midori #the legend of korra #the red lotus #fanfiction #lok #legend of korra #red lotus #long post

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mask131 · 9 months

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Magic the Gathering: Innistrad (Innistrad block)

My favorite Red cards

The Vampires of Innistrad are split between Black and Red. Black vampires are those that appear in their noble, aristocratic, elegant self, as dark, creepy, seducing clans and families ruling over their domains... Red vampires are the vampires that give in to their bloodlust and base desires: violent brute, human-shaped beasts, hedonists of pure debauchery...

The "Planeswalker's Guide to Innistrad" gives numerous information about vampires in Innistrad:

Vampirism is not a virus or a curse. Vampires themselves call it a "condition of the blood": it is an "anointing" that is entirely and purely magic, and that very few among those that receive it consider as a curse. Vampires like to call it poetically "an ablution" or "a washing of the self in blood".

Vampires are not undead, though they have traits that can make one believe so (vampires do not age, their skin is cold to the touch...)

The vampire traits include: A skin pale and cool to the touch. Dark hair - usually it is black, but colors such as deep purple, dark magenta, burgundy and dark blue-green were also seen. (Some vampires like to wear wigs, either for fashion, either to disguise themselves among humans). Vampire's eyes have a black sclera, and irises of various colors, but usually gold or silver. The canines of a vampire are always more developed than the rest of their teeth, and when they bite someone they extend "about a quarter inch". They also have long and slightly curved fingernails.

Innistrad is a place of superstitions and folklore - as a result there are many tall tales and frightening stories about everything vampires can do. But in truth, Innistrad vampires only have THREE powers in total. One, they do not age and stay young forever. Two, their strength is the double of a normal human's (but not greater). Three, a "two-foot-wide aura of silence" emanates from them at will, meaning they can muffle all noises around them (including their victim's screams)...

However, beyond those three abilities, vampires can learn a form of magic unique to vampires. Called the "glamer" (a quasi-illusion magic, and thus a deformation of the "glamor"), it is a series of "mind-affecting spells" that only touch humans. A true illusion magic will change the subject's appearance as a whole and for all eyes - but the vampires' imperfect "glamer" can only affect the perception of humans and make them think they see something else. Any strong-willed human can easily break a vampire's glamer. However, beware! The older a vampire grows, the more powerful they get, and the "elders" have learned all sorts of other magic and spells - including the ability to fly into the sky, the ability to hypnotize people with their eyes, and the ability to turn into a bat or mist.

Innistrad vampires have numerous vulnerabilities: they are harmed or killed by any weapons of "living wood" (dead wood won't affect a vampire more than stone or steel) ; they cannot cross running water in which the moon is reflected ; water enchanted by Avacyn herself will burn them like acid ; Avacynian holy symbols paralyze vampires or make them flee... An interesting note about silver: I said before it harmed vampires. My bad, I made a mistake. Silver blades are not particularly more harmful to vampires (even though the blessing of Avacyn makes them a powerful weapon against them). Silver truly is the bane of werewolves. BUT vampires are still disturbed and unsettled by the presence of silver: silver makes vampires perceive, realize and consider what their life would have been as regular mortal beings. They cannot fight it, the silver forces this vision upon them - and this is why vampires flee mirrors (which are coated in silver). They have a reflection in them... but it is the reflection of the person they could have been, rather than the monster they are now.

A vampire, to survive, must drink a human's full contenance of blood by moon cycle (so roughly five liters of blood across one moon's cycle). But vampires rarely stick to the "bare minimum": vampires always drink more than just the obliged five liters. Vampires treat blood like wine, and even have a full blood commerce among each other (though a blood can only stay potent for three days or so, roughly the same time a plant stays alive once cut). The only way to preserve blood is to have a mage or wiard preserve it by magic - freezing the blood won't work. Vampires cannot drink the blood of a dead human (if the blood of a living human is like wine, "dead blood" is like vinegar) ; and they cannot drink the blood of animals (vampire-alchemists tried to convert animal blood into human blood, but all transmutations failed). Without human blood, the vampires will literaly "dry up" across a few days until their bodies turn to dust. Usually a vampire, when starting to "feed" off a victim, will "empty" the whole body ; only a vampire interrupted during their meal will leave a victim alive.

Merely being bitten by a vampire isn't enough to become one. To become a vampire, one must be emptied of their human blood AND receive the vampire's own blood. To do so, a vampire will cut their cheek or tongue so that, while they bite, their blood mingles with the human's. Across the three days that follow this exchange, the human will disdain food and crave blood - but not just any blood. Their "sire" blood, the blood of the vampire that began the transformation. If a human doesn't drink the sire's blood in those three days, they'll die ; if they do, they'll become vampires. Due to the vampires' hedonism, decadence and hubris (they believe themselves the "saviors" of humanity), they only select the "best" humans to become vampires: the most intelligent, the most talented, the most beautiful... And given vampires are very vain, a bite meant to create a new vampire will always be done in a very careful and hidden place. Unlike normal victims which are bitten in obvious organs (the neck, the arms, the cheeks), transformation bites will occur at the top of the thigh, on the torso right under the arm, or on the sole of the feet (though the Guide notes that the latter case only happens if the person is SPECIAL, because a vampire's ego is deeply humiliated by having to "kiss the feet" of a vulgar human).

#magic the gathering #mtg #innistrad #vampires #dark fantasy #gothic horror #horror fantasy #red cards

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5blight · 2 years

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Finally. 🌙 for bren, 🌱 🗡 for safa, 🚉 for siomon, and all the hearts for khizim :)

🌙 MOON - what is your oc's greatest wish? how far are they willing to go for it?

For Brenhir, it was always simply to make an impact on someone’s life, to be able to see and help nurture their success. It’s what he so badly wished to see in his siblings before they lost so much of their humanity.

🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?

Unfortunately for Safa, happy childhood memories are a blur. She does recall eating stolen sweet and baked goods with her brother though.

🔪 KNIFE - how do they react to injury / misfortune befalling their loved ones (significant other, family, friends)? do they put themselves at blame?

Safa reacts with unbridled but functional rage. She will ruthlessly seek out the offending party and take matters into her own hands, regardless of what the offended party feels about it.

🚆 TRAIN - what is their answer to the trolley problem?

Siomon would just kill the one guy. Less paperwork to deal with than if it were five.

💓 BEATING HEART - what gets their heart racing?

For Khizim, extreme proximity. Touch. Anything tactile and willingly vulnerable.

💘 HEART W/ ARROW - what traits do they look for in a relationship? do they believe in love at first sight?

Absolute, uninhibited passion. He seeks someone who will reciprocate his own selfishness, devotion and attention. He’s also very attracted to people who are sure of themselves or their craft/skills. Not someone who is necessarily set in stone but someone who has a strong bedrock. Proficient ;)

As for love at first sight — yes, with Agnes. Though you could argue it was more obsession at first sight.

💗 GROWING HEART - if they have a crush, is it noticable? what changes when they're in love?

So noticeable it makes him look stupid. He’ll make any excuse to see them or get close. He also seems to daydream more and all that space for them in his head completely evicts space for anybody else.

❤️ RED HEART - their love language(s)?

Physical touch, words of affirmation and gift-giving. But really, he’s an all-rounder.

💙 BLUE HEART - do they miss their s/o easily? how do they act when their s/o isn't around?

Khizim is just totally, stupidly hopeless when Cintera and Shiver aren’t around. I’m sorry, it’s true. As if the more melodramatic he acts, the sooner they’ll come back.

💚 GREEN HEART - what things make your oc feel comforted?

Getting hugged, almost smothered, to dear death. Especially when they’re so close he can hear or feel a heartbeat.

💖 SPARKLING HEART - are they a subtle or a showy lover?

Showy. I didn’t make him essentially Gatsby Dracula for nothing.

💌 LOVE LETTER - do they like love letters? what kind of messages do they leave for their partner?

Loves writing them, loves getting them. His letters go for pages, you’d think he was writing ye olde dissertation.

💔 BROKEN HEART - what could their partner do that would absolutely break their heart?

To tell him he wasn’t truly capable of love would simply devastate him. He’s more than aware he is otherworldly and doesn’t exist the same way as everyone else. But he can love, even if it’s a beastly love.

#hurts you!!!!!!! 👺#ask #brenhir #safa sabine #siomon #khizim

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writinggremlin · 7 months

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GAH-- Jfc you scared me!! Hi!! :D!!!!

This ask was sent in as a part of this ask game, where if you send me an ask with "!!", I will reply with an infodump about one of my ocs! I currently have no other requests and--... (turns to count)... 15 more ocs to go wild about. This doesn't include stuff about my worlds and magic systems, which I would also be more than happy to share!

So if you like what you see here and want to learn more about the lil blorlos in my head, feel free to send in an ask! I want it. I want you to. I know you want it too. Do it. You won't. No balls. (Expect me to take a few weeks tho- I'm not fast at all lmfao)

Now- don't get me wrong, I've been so fucking hype while typing this all out! But I might've also been procrastinating this out of fear of what people might think...

I think I have found the solution though!

...

(Chucks this violently at the dash)

(Heehoos away)

Cw (Starts at the origin story, below the Blorbo Blingo): Mentions of cults, religious/ritualistic sacrifice, death, and implied manipulation/brainwashing.

=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=

Introducing: Mist!

My beloved immortal, my first whumpee before I even knew what whump was, and easily one of my more powerful characters (though she has been nerfed and fiddled with quite a lot over the years).

She started out like many people's first characters do; as an overpowered self insert with a red/blue heterochromia because "oH nO!! oNe HalF iS EVIL aND iS oNlY mUrDeR!!!" (No shame to the people who have characters like that btw! That's not a bad thing! It's just something that I feel is difficult to write correctly, and I was definitely not able to do that lmfao).

Not only that, but I was a Warrior's kid growing up. Her original name was Miststar, and I decided that she was somehow the leader of Starclan. Yeah... I never solved the plothole of how or why a human would become a cat god besides just- dying in the area lmao.

I have kept many of the original things about her though, like her telepathy, the immortality, the "evil half" (who gets lightly mentioned in the backstory, and who I'll introduce next if I ever get more of these 👀), and even being a demi-god (technically). But I have definitely toned everything wayyyyyy down throughout the years, and I'm still messing around with her to this day.

As for today, Mist now feels (to me) like a humanized character who has been given a life of magic and power, where she still struggles with relatable experiences despite that (like Sabrina The Teenage Witch or Bewitched). And there's no demons that live in her head to occasionally possess her and murder everyone for no reason lmfao.

=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=

Stats/Bio:

Name: Mist

Nickname(s): Sunshine (only allows Ember to call her that)

Age: About 600 years or so

Species: She's adamant about being human, though technically she could fall under a demi-god type status.

Height: 5'8"

Gender/Pronouns: Woman, she/her

Sexuality: Pan (Almost never gets into romantic relationships. And no, that's not just because of the whole immortality thing)

Relationship status: Single (and that's not likely to change anytime soon)

Personality: Mature, wise, motherly, respectful, understanding, self-reliant. She seems willing to be open about herself, yet also rarely seems to let herself be vulnerable.

Powers: Immortality, telepathy, Shapeshifting (limited to a few forms), Portals (can be inter-dimensional), teleportation (quantum physics+magic), earth and water manipulation

(I may rb this later to go into much more detail about each power's capabilities and limitations and all of that. 👀)

Preferred weapon(s): N/A

Fashion vibes (casual): Cozy and comfortable. Sweaters, jeans, and sneakers are the go-to.

Fashion vibes (special): Extravagant and/or intricate ballgowns with a black, dark purple, and/or dark blue color palette, and a sparkly design, to mimic a twilight or night sky.

Hobbies: Art (drawing, painting, coloring, etc), reading, playing piano, adventure

Likes: Space, quiet moments, classical (or similar sounding) music, waltz music, tea, and almost anything that she will never be able to fully comprehend or understand will fascinate her

Dislikes: Cults (who doesn't), religion in general (though she respects others beliefs. It's just not for her), being placed on a pedestal, crowds, being powerless (literally), being powerless (figuratively)

Extras/Fun Facts: She is susceptible to a certain type of power being used on her. May go more into detail about that in a different character's intro (if I even get more of these, idk if I will lmao).

Because she's been alive for so long, I would just like to confirm that she has, in fact, witnessed the creation of classical music, modern electricity, phones, planes, etc. This bamboozled me when I first realized that lmfao.

And to end this part on a goofy ahh fact: She doubts her ability to drive, yet will willingly volunteer to fly a plane (and she's genuinely good at it). Also, afraid of spiders.

Blorbo Blingus (there goes tumblr, downgrading the image quality again smh):

=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=•=

Brief origin story (yes this is the brief one):

Mist was born in the 1400's, into a small cult group that lived in a village, mostly secluded from civilization (aside from the occasional trader). Her first several years of life were spent more secluded than the others; not allowed to see the outside world or even interact with the others beyond what was absolutely necessary.

It was to keep her "pure".

For you see, Mist was conceived and raised to serve one purpose, and one purpose only: sacrifice. To be an offering for their "god". Nobody really understood why this was needed, but nobody really asked either, which made His job much easier.

Things didn't go according to plan, however. Reasons and explanations for why this ritual failed were unclear; only spreading through rumours and speculation. Though, Mist had noticed that the person preforming the ritual on her was reciting the wrong words. Whether or not this was on purpose, will always remain a mystery.

Now she did die, as expected. What wasn't expected, however, was her somehow pushing the lid off of what should've been her coffin, before anyone even had a chance to nail it shut. People were surprised, to say the least. (It was around here that she began to slowly gain her other magical powers as well.)

From there, tensions rose. Some of the members, namely ones who harshly judged their "God" for this mistake, saw this as a sign to change their ways, and follow her instead. Other members were more loyal to the original, who was already condemning and shaming her for supposedly betraying him.

The cult divided. ("God" will remember that.)

Around this time, Mist started noticing a little voice in her head. A voice that grew louder and became more real over time. A bitter, spiteful voice, which grew more and more powerful, the more anger and resentment it was fed.

Mist eventually grew close to that voice.

The voice suggested that she run away.

She didn't.

It tried again.

She stayed.

It ordered her to.

She refused.

Threatened.

Ignored.

It said nothing to her, just silently planted a small seed of an idea into her mind.

She left that night, and never looked back.

#...*puts her through The Horrors puts her through The Horrors puts her through The Horrors puts her through The Horrors puts her through-*#hshsghsjahsnddhs fr tho thank you so much to the anon who sent this ask in!!!#i am ✨terrified✨ of ppl's reaction to this. i am expecting the worst. but y'know what? fuck it we ball.#*potential reaction. idk how anyone's gonna react yet. that's kinda the whole point on why it's so spooky lmao #but anygay... yeah. enjoy!! and my asks are still very open and very empty and if you want more then I beg you to give me a sign #uhhhhhh... I think that's it. I think that's all the material I can use to procrastinate down here in the tags. lovely.#tw: cults #tw: religious trauma #tw: manipulation #tw: brainwashing #tw: death #Mist

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camellia-thea · 1 year

Note

For the dnd ask game - 13, 34, 40, 56, 61

you did not specify for who, but i'm pretty certain these are for taralin, but some got navi answers too (i've been neglecting my girl :( ) gfdkjfdg

13. what are some motifs you associate with them? did you intentionally bring in those motifs, or did it happen over time?

Taralin, of course, has motifs related to autumn, crows, blood, and decay. less obvious are smoke, and shadow. They've slowly been moving away from autumn though, especially with the gnolls moving away from the Morrigan, and their marriage with Esther; we be heading towards twilight babyee. the change in their colour scheme -- reds, oranges, creams and touches of purple and brown, to black, dark blue, and purple with touches of silver and red!

navi, obviously, has cats (servals specifically because. y'know) but they also have moths! her cloak and colour scheme is modelled after the deaths head hawk moth, and their name roughly translates to moth too! i had the moth thing before i had much else actually. specifially, death head hawk moths pretend to be bees and slip into beehives to get honey, and i kind of took that vibe for navi? she goes into tenetsia and brings back refugees. not quite the same, but i love it for her.

34. what languages do they speak? how did they learn them?

Taralin spoke common and elven equally throughout their childhood, though Khaj never taught them dwarvish beyond a few words -- a later regret for taralin. celestial came a little later, from amaurea as well. sylvan had a steep learning curve, but they got the hang of it very quickly because she had too. gnoll and mordish are the most recent acquisitions; gnoll from murgg and the clan. it was a requirement for diplomacy, as felt like an obligation with their transformation as much as a necessity. mordish came with esther, tucked away while they traveled (they had to ask her to spend a little bit only speaking to them in mordish, which he enjoyed a lot)

navi's languages are a little different; growing up, her house was also a mess of languages, especially paired with the fact that lycanthropes tend to spend more time as animals when they're children. common wasn't spoken around the house--it was a mixture of elvish and the lâm, and navi learnt common from primarily travelers instead of her parents or siblings. (is this my logic for why her accent is inconsistent? yes.)

40. if you had to remake this character right now, how would you change them?

ohhhhh okay. tbh i'm pretty happy with taralin as a character, but i'd probably change little aspects of their backstory? i love their tragedy but they are so edgy :pensive: when they were made, i wasn't having a great time and it... came through jhfdgkjhd i'd probably dial it back just a little. but i have a lot of fun with how fucked up they are.

navi would be changed a lot more; i love her concept and i love her character but i was not very well when i actually made her sheet and the decisions made were bad. i'd want to properly commit to a class. so yeah, i think mechanical changes mostly, but also her drive for adventuring is... lacking. i made her motivator too small in the grand scheme and so she kind of doesn't work as a long running dnd character? rather, she works for an arc -- getting home -- but beyond that i can't see her wanting to adventure, if that makes sense? again, i love her and her concept, i just wasn't super aware when i made her, and when i started actually playing her i realised i'd fucked up kjhgfdj

56. who would they trust with their life, unequivocally?

taralin would never answer this question aloud. they've been so guarded for so long that uttering words of trust is... too vulnerable to consider. late at night, though, curled up next to their wife (and the word still leaves a breathless joy curling in their throat) they realise just how much they're willing to give her. they would stop fighting, if she asked. they've taken a life for her specifically, and they would follow her to the ends of the earth if she wanted them too.

61. is there an in-game moment of theirs you think about and just laugh?

Giant Nyral.

for clarification for those who were not present; in the first arc of our campaign, we were in some magical sewers because a clan of kobolds had stolen our rogue, gex, (played by the lovely kaziaxd) who is (kind of) a kobold himself. the party -- after a bunch of issues -- made it to a chamber, in which the kobolds were trying to sacrifice gex to a kind of primordial dragon god (this was almost two years ago now so i'm a little hazy on details), and we knew we couldn't take all the kobolds and couldn't get to gex. taralin had a mushroom with the effects of the enlarge spell and so i gave it to nyral, my pseudodragon familiar, and, with a very very lucky nat 20, pretended he was the displeased god they were going to sacrifice gex to. somehow. somehow. it worked. and then we got out of the sewers and our new player's character, torvold, came up to us and threw up on us. we'd been in the sewers for a while and stank, and nyral was still Large size, and this greasy unwell man stumbles over to our really weird party and he just stuck around because we were just as out of place as he was hjkdjfdg

anyway, nyral is absolutely useless and this is pretty much the only time he's been legitimately helpful and i hold it in my heart.

#feather speaks #feather answers #ask game #taralin #navi #malonavi'rha #still taking these!#this was a lot less narrative based than usual but i hope it was interesting!

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todoscript · 4 years

Text

coming home and finding out you fell asleep with lingerie on

characters: bakugou katsuki. todoroki shouto. genre: smut. warnings: 18+. very heaty moments. katsuki and shouto have no restraint. author’s note: This came out of nowhere, but I had an urge to write some spicy stuff so this is what happened. I was going to add Izuku too, but these things became longer than I thought they would (sorry baby). I’ll probably post his version of this with another character in the future though! The actual steamy stuff is written underneath the bulletpoints & read more! ;-)

bakugou katsuki

isn’t surprised to see you passed out on the couch with a small blanket over you, being that he arrived back at your shared apartment late at night due to another full day of hero work

cue his expression softening to those secret endearing eyes of his he never shows in front of you as he watches you for much longer than necessary, breathing in and out evenly in your sleep

but hey, can you blame him? you’re pretty damn cute when you’re so sound asleep like that—word by word thoughts going through his head right now

he knows you can’t stay here for long though. it gets pretty chilly in the living room and he doesn’t want you to catch something, considering how flimsy the blanket is that’s covering you. the material barely reaches to your ankles.

“Babe. Hey, babe. I’m home, c’mon let’s sleep on the bed,” he says low in his gruff voice, running a hand up your arm that’s clad in the blanket.

shakes you a bit to stir you awake so you can both walk to the bed together, but you don’t budge the first couple of times, only humming in your sleep

so he takes it upon himself to carry you to your room and properly get you to bed

however, when he moves the thin blanket off of you, that look of surprise slowly envelops his face when he sees inches of bare skin unveiled the more he pulls the sheet down

- - - - -

You’re practically naked aside from the sheer, wine red lace that only covers your most intimate parts, and even that isn’t enough to keep Katsuki’s eyes from wandering and his thoughts from wandering further.

With the blanket drawn off you, there isn’t a barrier to keep the cold from nipping at your skin—a sensation that agitates you awake as you stretch out your sleepiness on the couch. You’re still unaware of the lecherous eyes that stare at every angle you offer them. Spreading your body out like that, where the fabric clings to you, accentuating all your curves right in front of him? You may seem half-asleep, but there has to be a vixen at work inside that mind of yours. There’s no way you can’t be aware of what you’re doing to him.

It’s not until you rub away some of your drowsiness that you finally perceive the blonde kneeling before the couch. The surprise at discovering his attentive, red eyes glaring at you startles you to attention. You fix your hair, moving the strands out of your face and cleaning off the invisible marks of drool that might have abided your lips.

“Oh, welcome home, Katsuki,” you manage to greet, but Katsuki does not return your welcome. Instead, you feel his large calloused palm run up the length of your legs, and you realize the situation you’re in—how you decided to surprise him that night, wearing a new matching set of dark red lingerie, only to end up dozing off on the couch waiting for him. Though it seems it wasn’t all for naught. With the carnal expression he gives you in your most vulnerable state, he’s more than surprised alright. He’s absolutely thrilled.

Katsuki’s hands explore across your skin, mapping through every expanse despite being more than familiar with the territory. But in actuality, he’s paying all his attention to the lace—the fabric seeming so flimsy, so obscenely indecent on that figure of yours, yet at the same time, equally exquisite. You don’t wear lingerie often, but when you do, it always spurs something to tighten down in his pants, seeing you like this.

His hand trails up the material, tracing the texture before slowly inching his fingers beneath the waistband. “Mm, babe, were you planning something? Looking all sexy, wearing this—” he snaps the elastic against your bare skin, stinging any sleepiness lingering in you away as you wince at the sensation, “skimpy thing while I was gone? You must be desperate to get fucked, right?”

Even if you want to answer, he doesn’t let you. Any words desiring to leave stay trapped in your throat when Katsuki suddenly leans in to fervently capture your lips.

Despite the usual rampant pace of his actions, you soon adjust into his air of lust like it’s second nature. Your tongue mingles against his through each succession of your lips locking together, your hands twining into his ash blonde hair. Katsuki gets to work at removing his shirt with one hand, but remains mindful at busying the other by palming at the lace, gathering your flesh in his grasp before the other joins in on the ministrations.

He finally makes his way onto the couch with you, towering over your body and revels in the noises sounding past those pretty lips when his fingers find your center. All the sensations pile in your body, making you tremble in waves. The wetness already seeping through your delicate panties becomes slicker at his touch.

“Barely even did anything and you’re already this fucking wet? You really do want to get fucked don’tcha?”

“God, yes, please Katsuki. Please fuck me, I want you to fuck me so bad,” you whimper, not sugarcoating your words. You need him right now. Need him so much you’re willing to beg for him without restraint, dropping every ounce of your dignity if it meant he’d pound into you and relieve you of that ache building in your lower-half. It’s to the point where just the sound of his belt unbuckling around his pants is enough to delight and send tingles of anticipation to your cunt.

“Oh, don’t worry, babe. Waiting on me all this time? I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. All. Fucking. Night. Long.” The tone his timbre descends toward incites a whine past your lips, and he smirks at the desperate sound.

“But on one condition.”

“W-What?” You’re quick to reply—anything to lessen the delay and continue the heat of your passion. However, you’re hesitant at what this condition might entail, especially when Katsuki’s grin widens further. His hands do not relent in pulling and pressing against you through the red material of your lingerie.

“I get to fuck you in this thing.”

todoroki shouto

grumbling on his way home because of how late it is and how long you must have been waiting for him

his old man just had to drone on and on at him when the former pro hero visited his agency that night

because of that, he enters your shared space where the silence and dimness of the apartment are what welcome him

he wishes you were the one that would greet him instead, arms open for him as you ask about his day

but he’s more than aware you fell asleep waiting for him all this time

especially when he strides into his bedroom and beholds you laying on your large bed with a fluffy robe wrapped and tied around your body. your eyes are closed in slumber and you’re curled up atop the sheets

you look so precious to him, he can’t stop an adoring smile from finding his lips

he slightly nudges you. when you slowly rouse awake, your small, dozy movements add to his endearment for you that spurs his lips to your forehead while you adjust to your surroundings

“Love, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Let’s get to bed.”

you hum a pitched “alright” in reply that comes out in a whine while you rub your eyes, saying you should get changed then

he sits on the edge of the bed, watching you saunter to the bathroom as you untie the sash of your robe along the way

just before your figure disappears inside however, he catches your skin, decorated in intricate black lace when you let the fluffy material fall below your shoulders

- - - - -

Shouto can’t help the look on his face while he unknowingly ogles you, eyes growing lidded with every peek of your body shown through the sizable crack of the door. He almost releases a groan when the long robe obscuring him from the rest of you finally piles in a heap on the floor and catches the full appearance of your body covered in the enticing black set.

The way it enhances your curves and brings out the beauty of your skin tone is beyond sinful in his eyes. He’s wondering how something so dainty can incite such a hardened reaction from him so quickly, and why he can’t seem to tear his gaze away at your mussed form still ridden with bits of sleep. You must be a succubus, right? Because how can you look so innocent, yet so tempting at the same time?

His attention on you leads to him lifting off the bed and striding to the bathroom, still trained on your figure with only lascivious thoughts running through his mind. He wants to touch you, squeeze you, feel the elaborate, lacy texture of your lingerie as he presses your soft lips on his, and hear all your lustful cries in the course of his insatiable greed.

Utterly devour you.

You have absolutely no idea what’s going through him right now, too occupied tidying bits of yourself in the mirror with a set of sleeping clothes lying on the counter, waiting to replace your beribboned attire. You wore this with the idea of wanting to treat Shouto to a good night of passion, but considering the time and how he must be tired after a long day at his agency, you figure it’s too late for such desires now. Oh, how wrong you are.

Undoubtedly so as the moment your fingers find the clasp on your back holding your bra together, they’re thwarted by a hand wrapping around your wrist and moving them out of the way. Within that instance, you’re also spun around. Your back presses against the sink counter as you come face to face with the sensual glint in Shouto’s gray and blue eyes.

You feel small underneath his unwavering, heavy gaze, squirming in place while his hands still grip your wrists that subdue any thought of you getting away from him. “Shouto, I need to get changed so we can go to sleep—”

“How long have you been wearing this?” he interjects, ignoring your plea and slipping a finger beneath the satin strap of your bra. Meanwhile, the other hand caresses up your warm, bare thigh until it arrives at your panties’ lace. The gestures leave the air hitching in your throat. You have to swallow down a gulp in order to reply to him amid his methodical strokes and caresses.

“I had it on all evening…” you admit, voice becoming quiet. Shouto hums at your answer, leaning into you and pressing your back further against the counter. He traces up your form with not only his hands but also his eyes, committing your bewitching state to memory, familiarizing himself with the intricate patterns of your lingerie.

“For that long, love? You expect me not to appreciate the effort and thought you put in, bearing your pretty body in this—” he palms at your breast through your underwear, rousing a moan to slip from your lips, “and waiting for me this entire time?”

“I-I thought you’d be too tired to—ah—t-to do anything so I figured we should go to sleep now, mm—” You find it hard to keep your voice steady. Not with Shouto’s ministrations descending to your cunt, stroking the wetness gathering at your center that saturates the crotch of your black panties. He captures the slickness around his fingertips and earnestly licks it off with his tongue, admiring your taste while keeping such intense eye contact. It makes your cheeks burn and your arousal heighten.

“On the contrary, baby, seeing you in this just riles me up even more. Makes me want to ravage you while you’re wearing it,” he tells you with an edge in his tone that reduces you to whimpers. Before you can come up with any coherent thought, he hoists you up onto the bathroom sink, effectively spreading you open in front of him as he kneels eye level toward your clothed pussy.

“And that’s exactly what I intend to do. So sit there and let me admire you as I appreciate everything you have to offer.”

#bnha x reader #bnha smut #bakugou smut #todoroki smut #bnhabookclub #bakugou x reader #todoroki x reader #katsuki smut #shouto smut #bnha imagine #bnha scenarios #bakugou katsuki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bakugou imagine #todoroki imagine

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hpalways · 3 years

Note

Hiii! I saw that your requests were open and I was wondering if you could do a Genshin highschool au (modern au??? Idk what to call it-) and how Childe, Venti, Albedo and diluc would confess to their crush. Idk I just think it's a cute idea :)

Anyways feel free to ignore! Thanks and have a nice day! Don't forget to eat and drink water! <3

Note: sorry for how late this is but ofc!! thanks for the request and take care as well!

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Characters: Childe, Venti, Albedo, Diluc

Childe

Lost in your own world, you do not notice the red ginger waltzing his way up to the front of the class. Only when you hear audible gasps from the other students do you glance up, surprise coloring your face.

His azure blue eyes are glued to you, mischief lining the corners of his mouth. Today his red locks are slightly gelled nicely, keeping out of his face and accentuating his features all the more. He dons his school uniform well, looking tall and confident up there, despite having everyone’s attention on him. But of course, that is just who he is as a person -- popular with the student population for being the class clown and a great track athlete with those long legs of his.

Which is why you nearly fall out of your chair at his declaration. “[Y/N],” he called out. Pairs of eyes follow to you, making you still as a statue. “I... I really like you. You are funny and strong and brave and better of a person than I ever will be. Will you go out with me?”

The class ‘awwed’, lapping the entire scene in with excitement. You want to facepalm, thinking how stupid he is for confessing in front of everyone. What if you reject him? Goodness. He truly is such an idiot. “No,” you say. You watch his face pale for a moment and the students growing silent. Unable to hold in the laugh spilling from your lips, you prevent the awkwardness from seeping in. “I’m kidding. I like you too, Childe.”

Everyone burst into applause, as Childe hurries to you, wrapping his arms around you. Unlike before, his confidence has faded away, left with a vulnerable boy who is so relieved to not get rejected by the one he loves.

Venti

Sunlight filter through the windows of the music room, casting a sheen past the wispy dust dancing in the air. A young boy with braided ombre locks peacefully sits on the window sill, his legs kicking forth in steady rhythm. Humming under his breath, his teal eyes dart to the door that opened up, instantly brightening up in excitement.

You peek into the room to find the musical genius, Venti. His childlike charisma is found in the corner, his figure soft and beautiful. After having music class with him, you grew quite close to him -- he never fails to make you smile. He is different from others, a free spirit unable to tied down to anything. Never afraid to seek the thing he wants, he has pushed you to do the same.

“You’re here,” he breathed out, soaring down from the high ledge. “Can I play you a song I’ve been working on?”

Beaming, you sit down on a chair and nod. Touched that he chooses you to hear something so vulnerable first, you are more than willing to do anything for him. He is a cherished friend -- one you never hope to let go. “Please do.”

He starts to strum the golden harp he’s holding onto, the melodic sound of it wavering into the room. He starts to sing words of no meaning, clear and pretty to match with the instrument. It mesmerize you from the bat, your eyes gluing the stunning male in front of you. His eyes are closed, but his actions were soulful, as if every note wants to say something to you.

When he finishes, he stops you before you could clap. “Wait,” he whispers, coming closer to you, his eyes rimmed with tears. “I want to tell you a little secret. I like you, [Y/N]. A lot.”

You drop your jaw, blinking in shock at this newfound confession. For a minute, all is silent, the remnant of the song still stuck playing in your head like a broken record. Your cheeks warm and your heart race, and you realize you already know your answer to his confession. “I like you too, Venti.”

Albedo

In the quiet of the library where you can hear a pin drop, you listen to the soft ‘sha’ of the rain pouring outside of the school. It is the perfect day to study with the renown Einstein of the school, Albedo. You lift your gaze up to see him sitting across from you, crystal blue eyes peering down through his lenses.

He has been very helpful lately, always offering to walk you through problems you are stuck on. It makes your insides flutter, taken off guard by his generosity. Stupid you are, you used to assume him to be a prick, just because he is smart. But now you know better... and the more you get to learn about him, the more you want to see him, not just for tutor sessions.

He looks up from his textbook and you flinch back, ashamed for getting caught staring. How embarrassing. Quickly looking back down, you pretend to study, frantically scanning the unreadable letters painting on the page. You stiffen when you hear his voice. “Do you need help on anything?” he asks you. Even making his way around the table, you grow flustered when he bends down, platinum blond hair falling from his sides.

Not only is he smart, but he is beautiful.

He turns to look at you, inquiry coloring his features.

“Oh!” you force out, chuckling a little. “No... I’m okay for now-- thank you though.”

He nods, yet does not leave your side, with brows furrowing in deep thought. “Well, I need help on something. Do you mind?”

Albedo? Needing help? How strange. Did the world just flip upside down. You nod in response anyway, unsure whether or not you can actually help him.

“I can’t figure this out, but why do I feel so nervous around you?”

You pause, heart pounding so loudly against your chest you can hear nothing else. Did this mean...? He couldn’t possibly? But maybe you are too desperate not to voice out the suggestion. “Do you... like me?” you croak out. “Like... like like me?”

He does not respond for a moment, pondering long and hard about it. Eventually, he sits down on the chair next to you, nodding slightly. “I think I do. I like you [Y/N].”

Diluc

He is your bestfriend, your pillar, the one that has kept you true to yourself this entire school experience. No matter what, he is there for you, the one reliable person that hasn’t failed you once. And because he is that, you have grown to love him -- more than just a friend.

Your arm is hooked around the redhead’s broad shoulder, his soft locks tickling you. In that usual ponytail of his, you always admired his looks, for he could pull off long hair unlike most people. Scarlet hues are trained on you, listening intently to the story you are telling him.

Reaching your locker, you release your hold on him and begin to spin the locker combination. It clicks and unlocks and as you try to find a notebook, something else caught your eye. There, laying in the middle, is a delicately wrapped letter, accompanied by a lone rose. When did this get here? Blinking at it in confusion, you hesitantly take it, pulling at the silk that binded the thick paper together.

Dear [Y/N],

you are my best friend, but to tell you the truth, I’ve always longed more from you. Because I have feelings for you, and you only. No matter how many years has gone and come, it has never changed.

-Diluc

You turn to look at your best friend, disbelief coloring your expression. His head is downturn, his ears growing red in embarrassment. Holding tightly to the rose, you stand on your tippy toe to place a kiss on his cheek. “I have feelings for you too,” you breath out.

“You do?” he echoes, his face lighting up like a puppy, yet too awkward to make a move.

“I do.”

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yandere-wishes · 3 years

Text

⭐Yandere Joestars⭐

(Parts 1-7 + Bonus Charcter: Joseph and Johnny’s characterizations are based off @dear-yandere ‘s interperations) I tried to write this mostly in the Joestars' POV. Their respective darlings resemble lifelike dolls rather than human beings to further illustrate how out of touch with reality the Jojos have become.

Warnings: Gore, kidnapping, dehumanization.

Edited: By the amazing Peri!! (@tealyjade-libran )

⭐Jonathan Joestar is possessive. ⭐

It's only when you lose something, that you start to cherish it...

It's an old saying, one that Jonathan remembers from an antique storybook his mother use to read him. It didn't mean anything back then, when he was still an infant too young and new, to fully comprehend what "owning" and "losing" was. But as the years ticked by faster than any clock could keep track of, things started to change. What had once been a passing quote in a chivalrous story about knights and dragons, soon turned into the epitome of Jonathan Joestar's life.

Soon love wasn't about saving a princess or impressing the neighborhood girls with his boxing skills. No, all too soon love became about own and guarding.

There may have been a time -long before "Jojo" and Dio met- when Jonathan was just like any other gentleman. Tender and sweet, flirtish at gatherings and charming in ladies' companies...but that was a Jonathan from a could-be-past that had been demolished the minute Dio Brando stepped foot onto the Joestar estate. From then on things depleted all so quickly. Everything Jonathan had come to unconsciously cherished had been so easily stripped from him by his beloved new "brother".

Everything he loved had been killed, destroyed, or broken in some inhuman way. His friends had abandoned him, his lover had distorted him, his father didn't even notice him...

"It's only when you lose something, that you start to cherish it". The second time he hears that phrase, it freezes him to the pavement, his body star-struck like he just received a message from the heavens. Although it's rather peculiar, why "heaven" would convey a message to him in such an unholy place.

With Dio having practically kicked Jonathan out of the mansion and countryside. Jojo had no other place to go but the back allies of London. Sure he still tried to be home for supper and bedtime and any other time his father may get an inkling of his absence. But when there was no need to 'appear' Jonathan took to the London streets away from Dio and his lackeys.

In fate's bizarre game, it's in a backstreet that reeks of days old licker and rotting flesh of paupers that no one has bothered to bury. That Jojo hears that life-defining idiom once more. His dulling sapphire blue eyes follow the mist of those melodious words. Staring until they're practically itching to cut through his sockets and run after those little words. But they stop right before they can leave their eyelets, they stop and stare at the figure that strolls out of the shadows, in such a way, that would make Jojo's father slap him across the face for being "barbarous".

It's luck or fate or maybe even destiny that leads the heir of the Joestar legacy to meet his darling in the slums of England.

"How my heart resonates when I lay my weary eyes on your enchanting face..."

There's an odd sweetness about the naivety that surrounds his little friend. A sort of innocence that comes with not knowing about the hell that he's gone through. It's charming in a moderate way, his darling can't come to despise him if they haven't got a clue who he is. Keeping both his worlds as far apart as possible is really the only option left. Dio and his friends can't hurt his new friend? Lover? Companion? In actuality, Jonathan really doesn't know what you are to him. At first, you're merely a distraction from his crumbling, lonely shell of an existence. A sort of invisible pillar holding up London's bridge before it collapses into the River Thames. Sure he views you as another person, unlike the other noblemen Jonathan has no desire to treat you as anything less than a respectable young lady despite your social statutes.

Dio can have the noblemen and ladies, he can have all of George's affection and favor, Heck Dio can have the whole goddamn world for all Jonathan cares. So long as he has his darling, his sunflower, his only means for living, then he will be content.

Jojo lost everything he once loved, but he swears it to every star in the night sky that'll preserve his darling from the wickedness that runs this cruel world. He'll cherish her while she's still in his arms...

He'll protect her, just like the knights did in the old bedtime stories his mother would tell him.

"...I swear on my honor as a Joestar that I shall never lose you to the likes of anyone, I'll be a true gentleman, a true knight and I'll protect you from any who wishes cause you harm."

⭐Joseph Joestar is Protective and all so patronizing.⭐

Why must Love hurt so much?

It's solitude, pure utter solitude that attracts Joseph to his darling. Oh sure, he must have known them from an earlier time in his life, back when the words Hammon and Ripple just sounded like fancy dessert names. Back when he was still a naive kid wishing on every goddamn star that he could just meet one of his parents for a fraction of a second. Back when life was easy when everything made sense. That's when he first met his darling. Although all so many years ago he probably just thought of them as the little sister he never got a chance of having.

There's a numbness growing inside him now that his life has slipped off its axes, hurling into unknown darkness that plagues him in the form of Pillarmen and red gems.

Everywhere he looks there's a reminder that nothing's going back to the way it used to be. No waking up to Granny Erina's voice calling him down for breakfast, no running around chasing Old Man Speedwagon. Everything is gone, replaced by Lisa Lisa's brutal training and Ceaser's endless taunting.

Day by day nothing changes, but once he looks back every little thing is different. Ruptured and mangled into something unrecognizable.

But then there's his darling. Someone -or rather something- that's still the same. Just like before. Her smile is still the same as ever, bright and cheery as she runs up to him wrapping her arms around his abdomen muttering about how much she missed her "Dear Big Brother".

(Y/N) is a comfort, a familiarity in a strange new world. She's something so frail and vulnerable, not to mention naive. Thrusted into a world where horror writers don't dare venture into. It's so likely that she'd be captured by one of Kar's zombie vampire things or -even worse- charmed by Caesar’s silver tongue.

It's thoughts like these that haunt Joseph at night, keep him up and wandering into her room just to gaze at her sleeping form. He's lucid enough to know how it might look. Like he's the bad guy trying to take advantage of a defenseless little girl. But he can justify his actions, he's her big brother, he has to watch over especially when she's at her most vulnerable. If Ceaser ever tried anything or some vampire freak snatched her away in the dead of night, Joseph would never forgive himself!

But what does he get for all his efforts? What does he get for all his sleepless nights and hours upon hours of worrying? Just a small smile and a fleeting kiss on the cheek. No sincere, "Thank you big brother," or, "You're my hero Joseph!" Nothing, nothing worthwhile anyway.

Now it's a competition, a battle to the death if it has to be -funny how he takes this more seriously than his match against Wamuu.- He's competitive by nature and he's willing to do anything to earn his darling's affection once more. He doesn't care who he has to beat within an inch of their life so long as he can have his darling back in his arms.

There is an aftermath to all of these, once all the fighting has ended and the battle's won. Once Joseph has finally claimed his prize. There's a certain way his darling has to act. She’s got to smile and play the role of the dotting little sister once more. Just so Joseph can justify his actions...

"And your next line is, 'I love you more than anything else big brother Joseph!'...at least I wish it was."

⭐Jotaro Kujo is cold and sadistic.⭐

Never learned how to love...

A lover by Jotaro's book is nothing more than a walking, talking doll. Someone who cooks meals, irons clothes, and kisses him on the cheek before he leaves for the day. Sure they have other uses, in flares of passionate moments, they're something to hold onto, another pair of limbs to get tangled in. Something hot and solid, someone to push down, to weigh his force on.

That's it, that's all there is to it...

A lover and a convenient toy are one of the same.

He knows it's wrong to think about someone that way. To deprive a living thing of all their thoughts and feelings just so it's suitable for him. But at the end of the day who wants to hear idle chatter and gossip or go outside for walks in crowded areas. All too social, it's all so troublesome. All Jotaro wants is a closed-off life, away from the scums of the earth...away from people in general.

It's such an inconvenience to seek out a lover, to hassle through dates and meetups in hopes of finding someone that clicks. Jojo would even go so far as to call it wishful thinking. So it has to be a pure accident that he even meets his darling. They're just someone who gets tangled in with the crusaders. A perfect living perception of 'wrong place, wrong time'. Someone who's life gets blown to bits and shambles just because fate decided to play a cruel joke on them.

And that's what piqued Jotaro's interest. The desperate, depleted look of pain cemented over their face. The sparse dying gleam of determination that blazes within their eyes. Oh, what Jotaro wouldn't do to snuff that little ray of hope. To watch as what little purpose they have is ripped from their arms. What he wouldn't do to see them in pain...

Pain is submission, that's really all Jojo wants. A darling submits, not out of their own free will, but because every little thing they've ever loved has been slaughtered, all that they cherished has been stolen from them.

But it's not enough

It's never enough

Although Jotaro adores the looks of anguish that decorates his lover's face. There's something more satisfying about maltreating them. About leaving marks all over, about leaving bruises that never lose their violet glow. He's claiming his darling, physically and mentally. Not a single day goes that Jotaro doesn't remind his lover who they belong to. From verbal taunts that plague his darling's mind day and night, to punches that break bones leaving them paralyzed on the floor begging for help, to cuts that are just a little too deep to ever heal properly.

Even when his darling is behaving, even when the poor little thing does everything her lover tells her to do, there's still going to be some sort of violence directed at her. Some backhanded remark about how useless they are just because they couldn't follow his mother's recipe. Some sort of blow just for greeting him 'too late'. Trivial things morph into punishments, just for Jotaro's sick amusement.

At his core, Jotaro is an unresponsive man, one with no regard for how others feel. He's distant, it's a trait he can't change. He likes how he does things, how there's no room for slip-ups when it's only him. Even his darling isn't someone he'd consider opening up to. Their opinion of him doesn't matter and their feelings are irrelevant. Most days he's gone until the last possible moment, leaving his darling an endless amount of time to mull over every word and scar.

But here's the catch.

As the clock ticks by, as the nights and days begin to merge into an endless existence, as all hope burns in the pits of hell, darling's mind is also going to stray. Ever so slowly losing its perception of reality.

'Maybe' spiders begin to spin webs of doubt through darling's empty cranium. The isolation begins to bite at her skin like the razor-sharp fangs of frostbite. They start to crave Jotaro's harsh touches, they start to miss the venom-like words. Every insult and slap to the face is welcomed, all the misplaced anger and death threats start to feel like sweet kisses and flowery touches.

Poor darling no longer sees big scary Jotaro as a monster. They've lost the ability to see him for what he truly is.

And what happens when Jotaro does finally come home? Oh, how little (y/n) will ravish in the gut kicks and loathsome words. How she'll take every beating with a sweet sugar-coated smile.

Cause this is her life now. A meaningless existence that revolves around Jotaro and his bleak personality. A life that's only worth living when Jotaro is around.

Is it even a life?

"Yare yare daze you're such a hassle, be glad I keep you around...”

⭐Josuke is obsessive with delusional tendencies.⭐

Maybe I'm the one you'll fall in love with next...

Just like his "father" Joseph, Josuke is stuck in a perpetual state between diaphanous and phantasm.

There's something all too wrong with Morioh nowadays. The narrow streets and verbose buildings have started to feel like a transparent cage. The town has always been small, barely reaching a population of 3,000 despite all the new families that keep moving in.

Nevertheless, everything has dulled, faded, and withered into a monochrome collage. The layers of repetitiveness had finally begun to pick at Joskue's nerves...

And yet somehow, by some diabolical twist of fate. In the mists of the oceans of familiarity, Josuke’s eyes grab onto some shimmering pearl lounged into between the crowd of familiar faces.

Sure he's seen this girl before, but he's never actually seen her. Never stopped to look at the odd way their eyes twinkle like newborn stars or how their skin shimmers with the glow of a thousand suns.

One second is all it took, a fleeting compliment as you passed by Jojo in the peppermint flavored afternoon. Your hair flowing like a tapestry of the galaxy as you disappeared in the crowd of dead pulsars. Not a care in the world, not for him, not for anyone.

Destiny was definitely up to its old cruel tricks again.

He's not stalking. Josuke will swear on his grandfather's grave that he'd never "stalk" a harmless little girl, like some distorted maniac. He just happens to bump into you at the beauty parlor when he's picking up a new brand of hairspray. And it's totally an accident when he meets you out in the abandoned fields! Honest! It's not his fault fate wants the two of you to keep meeting, it's not his fault that you guys are meant to be!

It's not technically a friendship that you two start to build up, it's far from one. Friends don't dream about sugar-filled kisses behind school walls. Or about ice cream that tastes like scandalous touches and candy induced moans. No, Joskue isn't your friend, he NEVER wanted to be your friend. He knows that! He knows what he wants...but with each passing day, he's beginning to doubt that you know that.

He'd never realized he's been so sensitive on you. So entranced by your out of tune voice that muttered rather than spoke. He's seldom been so eager to throw a punch and crack his knuckles on someone's skull, just for saying you looked "lovely today".

Whenever his eyes don't land on you, a rage-filled volcano bubbles in the pit of his gut, uncontrollable anger that festers inside of him, like lava waiting to spill out and burn anyone that wanders too close. His palms itch with the need to hold you, to feel your soft skin rubbing against his.

The jealousy is always there, pricking at his skin like rose thrones. Until they inevitably cut through his flesh and make him lose his composure. He's ready to kick and punch and hurt and kill anyone that comes too close to you, anyone that saunters off their orbit and makes a beeline for you, disturbing the balance of solitude that Josuke so eagerly sets you into.

Sometimes in the dead of night, when the world has finally dozed off, Joskue's mind begins to wonder. He thinks the way he feels about you is the same way an addict feels about his drugs. Maybe to him, you're even more addicting than heroin and ecstasy...and yet he can't quit you, he just doesn't want to quit you. Nothing in this world could compare to your sweet voice that tickles his ear when you lean in, to whisper a secret, or the may your full lips move when you throw another honey-filled insult at him.

He prefers when you're alone when he's the only one you talk to.

Sure there are exceptions like everything in life, although in the end

there's a sort of backhanded irony.

It's those exceptions that are going to hurt him in the.

Josuke trusts his friends, he knows that Okuyasu and Koichi would never do anything to hurt him...

But you're not on that list and to be fair you're surely the only one who can truly hurt him.

You fall for a friend of his. Not him, not the boy that's been driving himself insane just to earn a smile from you, not the boy that let you get away with insulting his hair and poking insults at his look, not him never him, it just can't be him.

"You're like an older brother to me"...Did you wash your mouth with acid before you spat those words at him? Did you intend to lace your words with knives and blades and rubbing alcohol before you stabbed him? It's figurative, sure. But it might as well be literal. No pain, no cut, no punch from any stand would ever hurt so much! You really don't know what you do to him, do you?

"I'm happy for you," it's a lie, blank and simple. Automatic words that he's practiced in the mirror a thousand and one times. He'd rather watch you suffocate on your own blood than in the arms of another man. He'd rather break every bone in your body than watch you kiss one of his friends.

How on earth had he ever come to love you? Someone as cruel and cold. Were you even human? You resembled some ice stand more than a flesh and blood person. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO HIM.

He really hadn't meant for it to become an addiction, he hadn't meant to get all so used to the crunch of bones beneath his foot, and the bloodied lips quivering, shuttering out apologizes for having the gall to utter your name in his presence. But there's only so much a teenage boy can take, only so much torture that he can bury inside with a moonlight smile.

Addictions really do funny things to semi-sane people, huh?

It's a split-second decision, done in the heat of an all so regular moment. It's just a simple half-hearted punch when you beat him at another videogame. Then another

And another

Then a crack, another and another, and before either of you knew it you're on the floor screaming out in pure agony.

Josuke vows he's not being cruel when he breaks your bones so delicately. He can justify every crack, every fracture. Although it's rather repetitive and in certain cases borderline petty.

Five broken bones on your left leg just for "kissing" your new boyfriend. Your right leg is bent at an angle you're sure it's not meant to be. All because you hugged said new lover before going to class.

Josuke's once liquidy blue eyes that held the softness of clouds have been dulled over by a sort of thick mania. His once soft touch is nothing but nails digging into already bruised tissue. His lips wobbling as stray tears flow past his eyes. Muttering apologies and stuttering curses at both you and himself.

It's not really like his darling can leave after that incident. Josuke is known around town as the boy with a diamond heart. There's no way in hell anyone will believe what he did to you. It's just better, safer, to stick close to him, to swallow the indignities and paint a loving smile over your face when you gaze into his depraved eyes.

It's better to pretend to love him, rather than have another limb broken...

"Come on (Y/N), it's just a little crack. If you promise to give me a tiny kiss I'll let Crazy Diamond fix you right up."

⭐Giorno Giovanna is sneaky and manipulative. ⭐

Sono pazzo di te. Sei la cosa più bella che mi sia mai capitata...

There's a sleekness to Giorno, a cunning that's hidden behind layers of charisma and charm mimicking that of his birth father's. It's so easy for him to fool his darling into believing that he's a charming prince from a storybook. He's the good guy trying all so damn hard to make his dream a reality. He's admirable, he's noble, he's Giorno Giovana, the golden boy.

It's not like he ever intends to hurt his darling. He'd never dream of laying a hand on them, he's all too familiar with the wounds that come from endless beatings. The bruises and phantom pains, that get worse as the days slip by. He knows real pain, and unlike all so many others on both sides of his family, Giorno doesn't want his lover to experience an uncia of it.

He'd never repeat what his stepfather and mother did to him. He's going to try and do everything he can to make sure that his darling is safe...

Because isn't that what's important? To make sure the one you love is safe. To make sure they don't get swept off their feet by some masquerading drunkard or taken advantage of by some fanciful sadist.

Giorno will do anything to keep his darling safe, even if it means tampering with their mind a little. Nothing too serious, he'd never even considered changing anything about them. Although isolating them isn't completely off the table and a few verbal threats are fine from time to time. Just for precaution...

Giorno is a rather determined boy, he'll go to any lengths to isolate his lover. Scaring away friends by letting Gold Experience give them a small out of body experience. If they're persistent then he can't guarantee that that out-of-body experience will simply remain an experience much longer. It's not out of malice, but it's what must be done for the sake of his darling, the only other thing he cares about.

There's a shift, a difference between the young naive Giorno Giovanna, the golden boy with starry eyes, and the new boss of Passione, the Mafioso who holds the whole country in the palm of his hand.

Oh sure, as a simple Soldato Giorno was dangerous in his own right. But Don Giorno? He's the sort of monster written about in the grimmest fairy tales. Wearing the appearance of a true king but underneath the luxury suits and priceless watches, he's just another greedy, fire-breathing dragon.

As the Don of Italy's most influential gang, Giorno's manipulation tactics have gotten rather ....hazardous. He doesn't have time to waste getting rid of every single person that poses a threat to his darling. If someone looks their way, he'll send some goons to take care of them.

Although it's so much easier to keep his lover locked away, he even has the perfect excuse now. He's the head of the mafia, he has all so many enemies who jump at the opportunity to hurt him in some way. So he has to keep his defenseless little lover locked away in some mansion that's all so far away.

He's also a bit more violent now. Giorno's more physical, ready to break a bone just for a wrong word or a cracked jaw from a punch for even asking to go outside. He blames it on the stress of running an organization...although it's more likely that all the power from passion has begun to rinse away Giorno's caring side.

"Cuore mio, Resta con me per sempre"

⭐Jolyne Kujo is clingy and obsessive and delusional.⭐

I can't stay away from you...

Jolyne is a rather condescending yandere. Her rough ragged exterior does little to hide the clingy neediness that writhes inside her shattered heart.

She's soft, dependent, desperate at best. Wanting her darling to approve of every tiny trifling thing she does. Needing their words of praise and approving smiles to have the courage to live another day.

At times it seems like the only thing keeping Jojo alive is the "good girl!" and "I'm proud of you!" her darling throws her way. Chanting the words of praise with closed eyes and fluttering smiles of anxiety.

It's difficult to make her sweetheart realize how virulent this relationship is, far too hard to call Jolyne a Yandere. The derogatory term applies to someone who ceases all control from their lover, who locks them in a basement, and throws away the key. It applies to murders and

stalkers and lunatics that roam the streets in the dead of full moon nights. It applies to those who were thrown into Green Dolphin for a reason.

Not to some girl whose life has been demolished over and over and over again.

Not to the girl with a star birthmark that follows her darling around like a lost puppy in the freezing rain.

But even Jolyn has her limits. She's been let down time and time again, abandoned and framed by those she thought she loved unconditionally. From friends to boyfriends to even her own father, everyone leaves, they take what they want, and then they leave.

Flesh like strings, stitched into a web of antithesis and distraught moods, act as a solid, interchangeable reminder of who really holds the power in this relationship. Of how Jolyne can go from needing her darling to controlling her darling in just a fraction of a heartbeat. She loves them, she swears she does...but they need to stay close to her, they need to only think about her.

Her addiction gets worse as the days tick by. It's less romantic, less loving. Morphing into a dependency, a compulsion. Rotting thoughts of her darling suddenly leaving, plague her every waking moment. The once semi pleasant conversations between her lover and her friends, get cut off like a severed limb.

Even Hermes and Foo Fighters aren't "good enough" to be around Jolyne’s lover. She's all so, scared they'll try to take them from her. Stealing the ONLY good thing in her life.

There's a certain degree of control that Jolyne's willing to give to her darling. A sort of freedom to make, revolting appalling choices, so long as they include her. A freedom to boss her around and make her submit. Her darling is free, so long as that freedom revolves around Jolyne.

"(Y/N)~ don't look at them! You should only focus on me! I'm supposed to be your world!"

⭐Johnny Joestar is sadistic and manipulative.⭐

Arrogance disguised as affection...

It's all degradation, all harsh words that sting worse than bullet wounds. Glares from dull wicked blue eyes that might as well kill, cause it's better than the alternative. Smirks that make being alive so damn distasteful. Kisses that engrave the lingering taste of rotting lead into your tongue.

Johnny isn't sweet, he doesn't smile at his little sweetheart. He doesn't pat their head and kiss their temples while uttering sweet nothings into their blushing ear. No, his lover doesn't deserve a honey-coated life. They don't deserve to have what was stolen from him by his so-called "loved ones". Instead, he uses them as a living dart board, for both his acid-laced words and bullet-like fingernails.

There's no love when it comes to Jojo. He doesn't want to waste time on something so frivolous as a "significant other". But he does like having someone -or rather something- to play with, a form of entertainment that bends at his will. Not a pushover, not someone who's too proud either. But a living doll that can take a few verbal spats and survive an armada of fingernail bullets through the stomach.

Oh, sure he wants to break them, having a toy that's so conflicted, that questions their own sanity is so much more fun. But it's the intervals that count. Johnny wants to be the one to break his darling. To engrave the helpless look of distress into his memory. He wants to preserve every scream, every tear. That's the whole purpose of even keeping a darling.

Johnny rarely lets his darling out of his sight. It's so much easier to play with their mind if he's the only one they ever talk to. They'll become so easily dependent on him if he's their only companion. Although sometimes Gyro can get a little too touchy and friendly. And there will be occasions when Hot Pants start to pry into the darling and Jojo's personal life. But the incidents are few and far between. Not like Johnny minds, if anything these minor secondary "meetups" are useful to the paraplegic jockey. They refill his darling with the most precious thing..." Hope". Just so Johnny can beat it out of them all over again.

There's a darkness that resides deep within Johnny. A toxicity that laces his actions. His life is miserable and he's damn well sure it'll always be that way.....

So why not take his lover down with him?

"Don't you love me darlin' ? Cause I certainly don't love ya."

⭐Jorge Joestar is delusional and obsessive.⭐

What if we lost our minds, together?

A love story better than his parents, that's all Jorge wants. Flower field dates, and quick lingering kisses before midnight. Something sweet, that doesn't have a macabre end. A romance without body-snatching vampires and zombies that shed their flesh. Something normal, gentle, lovable.

Although with the family he's been born into and the kind of things that keep finding him. Jorge doubts he's ever going to get such a hopeful love life. He's all so desperate to carve a life for himself outside of his family's shadow, but in the end, it's simply eager wishing.

He's not exactly sure what he's even looking for in a lover. Someone sweet but strong-willed, an average answer. Someone who bears a sort of resemblance to Lisa Lisa. Not physically but rather mentally, he's not a coward, he swears he's not, but he just wants someone who can protect him. A fair exchange in his eyes. His lover will guard him against the bullies and freaks of the island and in turn, he'll protect them from the grim ghouls that run amok through the world. Although when push comes to shove he isn't sure if he'll really be 'protecting' his lover or running away and hiding somewhere with them.

He just wants to fall in love and not go insane, a reasonable request, if he hadn't seen the worst that the world has to offer. It's just wishful thinking, sweet dreams for a boy designed to attract trouble.

He doesn't want to have conversations with his dead lover's head. He doesn't want to wear their skin and waltz around town. He doesn't want any of that creepy, supernatural stuff that destroyed his parent's love.

He just wants normal. But as the years slip by Jorge's grip on "normal" slowly begins to decay.

Normal is something, but what that something is has become a blur. Normal isn't vampires and zombies and ghost clowns that throw nooses around people's necks...Yet on the other hand maybe it is?

He's so far gone that he can't even differentiate between methodical and irregular. His brain's capacity to understand the difference has gotten so altered and broken.

Once he finds his darling he does try to act like the ordinary people of the Canary Islands or England, depending on where he's residing at the time. He tries to follow the mode, just to impress his lover. It's a façade, a bloody masquerade that's bound to deteriorate once he and his lover have settled down.

Although a poetic, domestic life had always been Jorge's dream, he soon comes to learn that it just doesn't suit him. Jorge's paranoia starts to increase. It's comical at first, the way his eyes dart to closed doors, half expecting a killer to emerge. Although the same paranoid tendencies can become rather smothering at times. He's all so certain something is going to jump out of the shadows, some creature with sharp fangs and knife-like claws is going to rip his lover's body to rags.

He's gotten rather umbrageous now that he's the one who's married and living in the Joestar estate. His tendency to run away from any form of conflict has morphed into a rogue-like sense, much similar to a rabid dog barking at anyone who gets too close to its territory. He keeps his darling locked away inside, triple-checking the locks to make sure no one or thing can get in. He avoids the probing disquieting neighbors who still speak ill of his widowed mother and murmurs about the "curses" bestowed on the Joestar bloodline. Sometimes even getting physical when the insults shift towards him and his new lover.

Punches are thrown.

Insults exchanged.

And then the door and windows are locked once more.

Leaving both Jorge and his darling in the chilling company of the semi alive shadows.

It's safer in the basement. It has to be safer down there. After all his mother kept his father's severed head down there for decades before anyone found it. So it's only sensible that his lover will also be safe, tucked away in the darkness of a brick room some few meters under the earth. He's not acting like his mother -and deep down he prays that this isn't something his late father would ever even consider doing- It's a thin line of justification, but he can reason with himself so long as he knows it's not something his other family members have ever done. He does try to keep his darling comfortable down there. Buying them the most luxurious furniture and comfortable bedding. Constantly bringing them new forms of entertainment.

Keeping them in this preserved state is what any reasonable person would do. Not just another insanity driven Joestar.

"It's for your own safety" he's repeated that phrase an umpteenth amount of times, although every time the sculpted words leave his tongue, Jorge becomes less sure of who he's really trying to convince.

Jorge is all so sure that he's doing all of this for both his lover's safety and to erase whatever misfortune follows around the Joestars, like an airy plague. Even his enrolling for the great war is done with this mindset...

Even though in the end it's also this mindset that gets him killed. Leaving his darling a wide window to freedom.

"Darling, what do you think when you look at me?"

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

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monst · 5 years

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The Silence after sex

This is an answer to that one anon who legit sent me a blank ask it’s right here. (Apparently it didn’t let me answer it directly) But, Seriously -.-‘ I’m not sure if you did it on purpose or if it was an accident. How am I supposed to answer silence???? You know what since ya like trolling me so much I’ll indulge ya. So I looked at this ask and, thought okay silence hmm-

The silence after sex

All characters 18+

Shigaraki Tomura, Dabi, Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Shinsou Hitoshi, Hawks (Takami Keigo), Fatgum (Toyomitsu Taishiro) Twice (Bubaigawara Jin) x reader (They are in that order if you wanna skip around)

Shigaraki Tomura

After he cums inside you, you’re both a panting mess of sweat and saliva. He takes his time to pull out and, immediately demands cuddles. It’s a peacefully silence; His arms wrapped around your waist as yours cradle his head running your fingers through his greasy hair. It’s soothing. It’s safe. When you pull him up, he can’t help but feel emotional, What with you pressing soft kisses on his forehead your fingers tracing the wrinkles around his eyes. He feels loved. It’s a new and odd feeling but he doesn’t hate it. And, when you feel him grinding into you again you can only roll your eyes with a smile. Because if this rat boy only knows how to show how much you mean to him by fucking the shit out of you then by all means you were going to let him.

How the silence broke:

“I Love you Tomura.”

“I don’t hate you.”

(I love this crusty man!!)

Dabi

After your well and fucked your out like a light. And, once your eyes close the smirk that was on his face drops and, he’s looking at your abused body. He’s burning with turmoil angry that he does this to you and, angry that you let him do it. He’s thinking of how beautiful you are and, how you deserve better than some street rat. Any other person wouldn’t call you defaming things or get off at making you cry. They wouldn’t spit in your mouth and use you like a urinal. He was bad for you. But the moment leaving you enters his mind he’s pissed because he’ll be damned if anyone else got to see you like this. You were his and as he dressed in silence his eyes never left your form. So long as you were willing to shed tears for him and, beg for his return he’d always be back. But in the meantime he was going to snap a picture of you and leave. He’ll wait for one of two things. For you to wake and call him or for you to text him that you never wanted to see him again.

How the silence breaks:

“D-dabi where are you? Why’d you leave?”

“That’s none of your damn business dollface.”

“….Okay be careful…and…..remember I love you Dabi. I’ll be waiting for you to come back so…. don’t die…Please”

(Kaz is a Dabi fucker……)

Bakugou Katsuki

He breathed in the scent of your hair as he held you flush against his hard body. His arms cocooning you protectively. He was in awe. He was always left in awe after he made love to you. You and, Bakugou never just fucked even when he was rough with you it was never mindless. You were the only person he’d every be vulnerable and open enough to have sex with. You were the only person in this world who carried a gold band on your finger given to you by the hero himself. He always thought of how lucky he was when ever you guys were snuggling in silence after sex. Today he was in a daze. After two years of marriage you were allowing him another part of your body. Your womb. His arms went down to caress your stomach the same stomach that will one day hold another little Bakugou. He pressed a gentle kiss to your head and, untangled his limbs from yours to get a rag to clean you up. You were already drifting when he came back a snort escaping his lips as he wiped off your drool. His lips coming into kiss you as he whispered-

How the silence broke:

“I love you so damn much.”

“Mmm”

(He’d be soft with his s/o afterwards and no one can tell me otherwise.)

Kirishima Eijirou

It was a silent morning. He woke up before you, wincing at the pounding of his head. It really felt like his brain was training to be an MMA fighter. He cast a look to your slumbering form a sad smile on his lips. You were undeniably gorgeous. You would also wake up with a hangover and, how he wished he could stay and tend to you when you awoke. But life didn’t work that way. He was just a booty call. A friend you called over to smash because another lover had broken your heart. Why couldn’t you give your heart to him? Why was he always reduced to a rebound? He let out a heartbreaking sigh as he pulled up his jeans. Once dressed he walked into your bathroom to pull out some asprin. His red eyes were shot tears threatening to spill over. Sex with someone you loved was supposed to leave you feeling happy and complete. But, whenever he and, you had sex he felt hallow, sad and regretful. Putting a glass of water by your bedside with the pills he ran his fingers through his hair. He knew the drill leave before you get up and come back when you called in tears….. But, he was done the post-it on the glass should be enough of an explanation. He was done with the vicious cycle and, next time you called he wasn’t going to be back.

How the silence broke:

Your sobs could be heard from outside of your apartment as you clutched the note to your chest. You had realized to late how wonderful Kirishima really was.

(Whoops…. This happened)

Shinsou Hitoshi

The smile on his face afterwards could only be compared to the sun. Bright and shining as your fingers traced shapes on his bare chest. You made him completely happy and, whether he was topping or not he was always left with a feeling of connection to you. You completed him and, thoughts like those ran wild in his head. Thoughts of how you’d raise little gremlins and, grow to be rocking chair raisins. His fingers came to stroke your cheek his lips parting in a soliloquy-

How the silence broke:

“Last night I dreamt of the sun….. it was bright, it was warm, and it was wonderful….. Her light shone upon me granting me warmth from the cold. Her luscious heat making me smile. She illuminated the grey filling up my heart. She brought warmth to my sheets, a fire to my soul, joy to my life and with that she took my heart. When she captured it, I thought for a moment why is it that sun chooses to shine for me? Isn’t the sun so breathtaking? Radiant?! Blinding?! Why…the sun?.. It brings life, it brings hope for a new tomorrow…. She brings me life, she is my hope for tomorrow….And I? I am her earth the one she fills with creations, with hopes and dreams. I am her earth that will never cease to spin around her. Even when I’m blue and dizzy my dance will be for her. But then I woke up…..I wasn’t dismayed because when I turned to the side she there was the sun right beside me.

(Shinsou is a poetic romantic! Change my mind!)

Takami Keigo (Hawks)

He was content with the silence. After years of unspoken attraction, it finally happened and if he was much happier than he was at that moment he’d burst. That’s why his face was buried in your stomach as he laid upon your legs. Your arms came down to caress his wings. Your fingers felt like heaven on his soft feathers that he could feel his arousal begin to rise again. However, it was a tender moment that and, he felt so comfortable. It was as if your arms were made to hold him and the thought had him drawing circles into your lower back. From your seated position you looked down missing his blissed-out expression as his sandy locks blocked your view. You didn’t stop threading your finger through his feathers and he wasn’t going to ask you to stop either. You stroked the red plumage until you felt him shudder. You paused. It didn’t look like it harmed him, so you repeated the action receiving the same trembles from the man. It was then that he made a sound and you couldn’t help but look down at him incuriously.

How the silence broke:

“Keigo? Are you cooing?”

“Roo.”

(If keigo cooing isn’t a thing it is now!)

Toyomitsu Taishiro (Fatgum)

Toyomitsu was scared. He wasn’t speaking and neither were you. Were you dead? Did he drown you in his cum? Oh Lord please don’t let that be the case. He could see it now ‘Pro-Hero Fatgum kills his girlfriend via oral!’ He was relived when he heard the audiable sound of you swallowing. Streams of his essence slipping past your lips as you were unable to swallow it all. Hell Fatgum didn’t mind he was more impressed with the fact that you could even take him in your mouth. When your eyes finally met his, he gave you a sheepish grin making you roll your eyes with a smile. You felt like a turkey on thanksgiving with how stuffed you were. Fatgum stretched your cunt beyond what you thought possible and, had filled you up so well that it was still flowing out. That wasn’t anything compared to how sore your jaw was and how full your belly was. He really took being a whole ‘meal’ to a whole ‘nother level. Toyomitsu knew he was a big man even without his quirk so he was quick to make sure you were okay.

How the silence broke:

“Ya scared me darlin’ thought ya died for a second there.”

“Ha. Ha….. Ugh I’m so damn full. Wipe that grin off your face!”

(He has so much lewd potential that I can’t even!)

Bubaigawara Jin (Twice)

He had pulled out a while ago a bashful look on his face as he looked down at you in your afterglow. His eyes took in everything from your frazzled hair to the light sheen of sweat that made your skin glow. He didn’t waste a single second and immediately took you into his strong arms cuddling you. You smiled brushing your nose upon his in a cute bunny kiss his stubble brushing against your chin. You ignored the scratchy feeling in favor of running your fingers down the scar of his forehead leaning up to press your lips upon it lovingly. Twice didn’t say a word. Although he ached to tell you how much he loved you and how happy you’ve made him he refused to open his mouth. He was afraid that after he said something to melt your heart, he’d ruin it by saying something rude. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you. You who had completed his life. He had finally found a place with the league, comrades a family and, then you came in to complete the picture. You came in to love him all! Damn he loved you! So much. Maybe he should just say it.

How the silence broke:

“I love you (Name), That’s right my fucking bitch.”

“This fucking bitch loves you too Jin.”

(Love him!!! Love him please!!!)

(There you got 8 characters happy??!! Lmaoo you can totally tell who I follow with these scenarios that and there so damn self-indulgent but hey can you blame me? The ask was to make something out of nothing right? Right?!?!)

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aliwritesfic · 3 years

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The Night Shift part 8 (F!Reader x Frankie Morales)

Summary: It's time to do what's best for you . . . also fuck Kurt

Warnings: physical violence, emotional abuse, brief mention of trauma

W/C: 2.2k

AN: So.... I'll be honest, I was quite sick when I wrote this (and I'm still not 100% but I'm at like 75% which is good enough) but I have a mentality of not editing or revising my work otherwise I embarrass myself and convince myself I'm The Worst(tm), but I hope this makes sense and the pacing is good <3

Spotify

Part 1 Part 9

Frankie was glad to see you finally opening up. Even if that meant tears he couldn’t wipe away, or a hand he couldn’t hold. The last thing he wanted was to put you in a position where you thought the only reason he was helping was to swoop in while you were vulnerable.

You sat next to him in his truck, your eyes were puffy and red from tears that once they started seemed to come in waves of intensity, from a few sniffles to shoulders heaving, gasping for air sobs. Manny sat beside you, holding your hand, which Frankie was grateful for. He was glad to see that you had people that cared about you. When he had messaged Manny that morning, it was more to find out if his suspicions were correct about the ‘friend’ you had talked about while drunk was you.

“You don’t have-“

“We want to,” Manny interjected for the fifth time. It occurred to Frankie that you weren’t used to people wanting to help you. “I’ve been praying that you’ll let me help you.” That made you sob again. You gave another apology, chest heaving as you tried to breathe.

Truthfully, Frankie was also glad that this was an excuse for him to skip talking about his own feelings. His own mind was a muddy mess of flashbacks and night terrors and bouts of anxiety that became so crippling he forgot how to breathe. How well would that have gone down in the little group he now found himself apart of? If he had to guess, about as well as it went down with Portia – pitying looks and urges to see a proper therapist, and a new distance that neither was willing bridge.

Manny answered a call as Frankie drove back. He wasn’t driving anywhere in particular, but when it had become clear you wanted to be anywhere but that bistro, he had suggested the three of you pile into his truck and see where the road took you.

“Mateo, honey, I need to ask you a few things,” Manny said into his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Frankie saw you lean your head back and squeeze your eyes shut. Frankie wanted to reach out and squeeze your knee, take your hand, do anything to show that he was there, that he wasn’t going anywhere so long as you wanted him around.

Manny’s voice faded into the background as you turned to look at Frankie. He pulled up at a small nature reserve, which was just an algae slicked pond and a few oak trees surrounded by recently mowed grass. Frankie noticed how bloodshot your eyes were.

“You okay?” he asked, realising it was a stupid question.

“I will be,” you said, your voice hoarse. You cleared your throat with a wince. “I’m not upset . . . I’m just overwhelmed. Like, I’ve been holding this all in for so long that once the lid was opened it was impossible to put back on, and now I’ve just gotta let it all out. Does that sound stupid?”

Frankie shook his head. “Not at all.” You smiled weakly at him.

“Bet this is the worst lunch you’ve ever had,” you said.

“Nah, I think it ranks pretty highly,” Frankie said. “Mainly because of the company, though.” You rolled your eyes and Frankie could see the corners of your mouth twitch in an effort to keep a smile away.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he said softly.

“What isn’t?” You asked, but before he could answer, Manny interjected.

“I’ve found you a new place,” he said. You shot up, confusion written on your face plainly. Manny smiled the type of smile when someone knows they’ve basically saved the day. “That was my dear friend Mateo on the phone. He is taking his first steps towards being a real estate mogul and recently brought a one bedroom apartment to rent out. And because he is such a dear friend and owes me like, a billion favours, I told him the minimum of what your situation was, and he has told me that he’s willing to rent the place to you for lower than market value. A hundred and twenty a week, including water.”

You’re silent for a few moments, and Frankie watched you carefully.

“When can I move in?” you said finally, and Frankie felt an invisible weight lift off your shoulders. He could only imagine how difficult this would be for you; making decisions that would change how you lived in a matter of hours, basically upending your life.

“He can get the keys to us on Wednesday, he’s just got to replace some fixtures and finish painting some walls,” Manny said. You nodded slowly.

“So, I just need to last till Wednesday,” you said.

“You can stay at my place, if you want.” Frankie said quickly, not exactly comfortable with the idea of you staying with Kurt. You had said he was never physically violent, but Frankie also knew how quickly a man could change when they didn’t get their way.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose,” you said carefully. Frankie nodded.

“Of course, you’re my friend, and friends help each other.” Just friends. Only friends. He wasn’t going to take advantage of you in this state just because he had a stupid crush. He had once had a conversation with a pissed off Eve Miller, who was ranting about the guys she thought were her friends instantly making moves the moment she became single. That had solidified Frankie’s resolve to not make moves on women he was friends with – it wasn’t fair to them or to him.

Before you could answer, your phone was ringing loudly. Your face crumpled as you looked at the contact, and Frankie frowned.

Kurt.

You took a deep breath and hit answer. “Hey! What’s up?” Your light and airy tone was at odds with your sombre expression. “No, I have lunch with Manny on Sunday, remember? You’re home already? But –“

Frankie listened to the angry buzzing coming from your phone, his revulsion growing.

“My phone died – no I just went out with Sara last night, she wanted to go to fight night . . . it’s not that short . . . No I didn’t fuck anyone else, Jesus Christ, Kurt! No! Look, I’ll be home soon, we can talk about this then.” You hung up with a shaking hand, your mouth twisting with effort to contain the tears.

Manny met Frankie’s eye over the top of your bowed head and gave a small nod.

“We’ll come with you to get some of your clothes,” Frankie said. “And anything else you need.”

“You’re really too sweet for this,” you muttered with a hiccup. “I’m sorry for dragging the both of you into my shit.”

“I crawled willingly into it,” Manny said breezily, “which I would only do for about five people in this world.”

The trio remained silent for several minutes, interrupted only but the sound of your occasional hiccups. Frankie reached out and patted your shoulder awkwardly, cringing internally while he did. Inexplicably, you leant into his touch, your damp cheek brushing against the back of his hand.

“Can you drive me home so I can get my stuff?” you asked softly. Frankie nodded and turned on the truck.

~*~

You were a ball of anxiety as Frankie pulled into the complex’s parking lot. Kurt’s car was already in the spot reserved for your apartment, sending you to the verge of a full-blown panic attack. You squeezed your eyes shut and counted to ten, then backwards from ten. Distantly, you felt Manny take hold of one of your hands.

“You’ve got this.” Manny’s voice sounded far away. “Francisco and I are behind you one hundred percent.”

“You’re calling the shots,” Frankie said, touching your arm. His hand was warm and calloused, and you didn’t know why that observation seemed to be at the forefront of your mind, but it was. You opened your eyes and met Frankie’s warm brown ones, suddenly feeling infinitely stronger.

You told them what you wanted to do – for you to go in by yourself and for them to wait outside the door, plug their ears if necessary, only come in if they felt like you were in any actual danger. Frankie’s face darkened at this, but to your relief he didn’t protest your plan.

You felt stronger with the two of them behind you. Every single step towards your apartment door solidified your resolve that this was the right thing, that this relationship hadn’t made you happy, fulfilled, in years. The click of your key in the door felt like one of finality.

Kurt sat on the couch, glaring at you. You left the door open a crack as you walked in, hovering by the dining table. You took him in fully and came to the conclusion that you were no longer attracted to this man at all. His skin was reddened by the sun, pale patches around his light blue eyes. His thin mouth was curled into a sneer.

“Care to explain what the fuck you’ve been doing while I was gone?” he said.

“Not really, no.” You replied. “Here’s the thing, Kurtis, you don’t get to go out with your friends for the whole weekend doing who-knows-what then turn around and get angry at me for spending time with the only friend from school that I still have! That’s not fair.”

“And who’s fault is that? You’re the one who pushed them all away!” Kurt stood up and advanced towards you. Normally, you would have taken a step backwards, given him space, but this time you stood your ground, clenching your fists tightly to stop them shaking.

“I’m still allowed to have a social life,” you said, struggling to keep your tone even. Kurt rolled his eyes.

“If you wanna go out and act like a fucking whore-“

“Think what you want, Kurt,” you said, “it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving. You can’t stop me.”

Kurt spluttered for a moment, turning a shade of deep red. “Like fucking HELL you’re leaving me, you bitch!”

“I am!” you shot back. He was only a few inches from you now, so close his breath was hot on your face. “I’m miserable, I don’t love you anymore, and I’m done. I’ve been done for so long I can’t remember a time I was fully invested in this relationship! I deserve better! I deserve love that doesn’t make me so sad it hurts, and I can’t have that with you.”

Kurt’s face twisted into an ugly contortion of the features you once found perfect. “No. Nobody can love you the way I do! Nobody can understand you like I do! If you leave, I won’t want to live anymore. Don’t you remember? I can’t live without you!”

“Then go to a fucking hospital!” you snapped, moving to get past him. Kurt grabbed your wrist tightly. His grip was like a vice, cutting off blood supply to your fingers.

“Let go!” you begged. Kurt tugged you closer, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth, your noses almost touching. He’s going to kill me. Oh my god, he’s actually going to kill me. You saw movement by the door out of the corner of your eye, and your heart swelled.

“You heard her,” Frankie said, “let her go.”

Kurt didn’t let go, but instead gripped harder. He’s completely lost it, you thought dimly, the expression Kurt wore sending true fear into your heart.

“And just who the fuck are you?” Kurt demanded.

“Let her go,” Frankie repeated. He didn’t raise his voice, but you could still hear the power it held. Kurt scoffed and spat at Frankie’s feet.

“This is an issue between me and my girlfriend, now get out of my apartment before I make you.”

Frankie didn’t reply, instead, he strode forward, pushed the sleeves of his flannel over shirt up as he did. Kurt didn’t wait. He pushed you hard against the kitchen bench, knocking the breath out of you and sending a shot of pain through your back, and moved to meet Frankie in the middle of the room.

It happened in an instant, blink and you miss it. Frankie swung, his fist connecting with Kurt’s jaw with a sickening crunch. Kurt went down like a lead balloon, howling as he collapsed on the floor. Frankie stood over him, breathing hard through his nose.

Manny ran forward to help you, holding you to him like the protective brother you had always wished for. It took you a few moments to realise you were shaking, out of fear or adrenaline you didn’t know.

“Come on,” he whispered soothingly, “we gotta get your stuff.” You nodded and let him help you up. You didn’t feel like you were connected with your body like you were watching the whole thing through a separate set of eyes. You saw Frankie standing over Kurt, arms crossed and boot pressing into Kurt’s chest.

Manny held your hand as you walked to your bedroom. You were distantly aware of the aching in your body, your back, and wrist especially. It was Manny who packed your bag for you, grabbing anything he thought you might need. The whole thing was done in less than ten minutes. Before you left you turned to face Kurt.

“I’ll be back sometime this week to get the rest of my stuff. Do not contact me.”

You felt your strength returning to you as you left with Frankie and Manny with you. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Taglist: @hnt-escape @sharkbait77 @1800-fight-me @annathewitch @darnitdraco @frankiecatfish @punkerthanpascal @nakhudanyx @gracie7209 @quica-quica-quica @pintsizemama @phoenix-of-loki

#the night shift #frankie x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier #frankie catfish morales

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

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Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 23

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

It doesn’t feel real until she sees the flutter on the ultrasound, the grey and white pixels flashing erratically confirming a healthy ten-week pregnancy. The doctor gives them a due date of September 17th, and she explains to Mulder repeatedly that the due date is only an estimate, that the baby will most likely arrive sometime in the two weeks before or after that day. Nonetheless, he prints little numbers in the corner of each date on the calendar, counting down.

She is lucky to experience very little nausea, but the time saved clinging to the toilet is instead allocated to bursting into tears at every tiny inconvenience. Mulder comforts her with a confused expression when she cries because she can’t find a Tupperware lid that fits, or her latte has too much foam, or she realizes she can no longer see her toes. She cries because she’s crying, because she feels out of touch with her own body and thrown off by her own emotions. They marvel at the growth of her belly as well as her breasts, which are even more sensitive than they were before. Her libido kicks into overdrive at the same time that she becomes incredibly self conscious about her protruding belly, her fuller face, her swelling feet. This leads to more tears as she grapples with both wanting desperately to be touched and not wanting him to look at her.

He tells her each day how beautiful she is, her hair growing longer and thicker, her skin glowing, her rounding belly housing the perfect little life that they created together. When he’s home, he rubs her feet every night, fetches her countless glasses of water and then helps tow her out of the bed so she can pee ten times in the night. When he’s on the road with Monica, he calls three times a day, asks Missy and her mother to go by and check on her, calls in dinner to be delivered so she doesn't have to cook. As her due date nears, he stops going on out-of-town cases, needing to be close enough to be by her side immediately when she goes into labor. He will not risk missing the birth of his child.

The apartment becomes cramped with a bassinet, changing table, pack n play, and various other baby gadgets. They consider moving, but the idea is too overwhelming for Scully so they decide to stay put until the baby becomes mobile and they really need more space. Mulder breaks the lease on his apartment and moves his fish tank into the living room, putting the rest of his furniture in storage until they buy a house. Priscilla breaks in all the baby gear, sleeping in the car seat and jumping into the swing, covering the tiny onesies with her black fur and making Scully cry yet again. Mulder refuses to let her scoop the litter box, even though she insists it’s safe if she wears gloves and washes her hands afterward. Other tasks she’s forbidden to complete include cleaning the toilet, carrying in the groceries and hauling laundry to the washing machine. When he’s on the road, she misses him as much as she is relieved to be able to be independent, not much caring for being treated as though she’s made of glass.

For the majority of her pregnancy, Scully insists that she doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby, that she wants to be surprised. Mulder respects her decision, even though he would personally like to know, and they create two lists of potential baby names, Scully crossing off “Lisa Marie'' each time Mulder tries to add it to the “girl” column. When she reaches 39 weeks, her pelvis widening as the baby drops into the birth canal, she is so miserable that she has a change of heart, needing to feel connected to this thing that is destroying her body and stealing her sleep. They call the doctor together on a Thursday afternoon as Scully sits on the couch in tears, having woken that morning to find angry red stretch marks marring her previously lily-white belly. When Mulder relays the doctor’s message that the baby is a girl, she sobs harder, and he’s not sure whether it’s because she’s happy or disappointed.

She wakes him at 3:00 am on September 21st, the irregular Braxton-Hicks contractions she’s been feeling for weeks having taken up a predictable cadence, now ten minutes apart almost on the dot. He starts rushing around, scrambling for her hospital bag and his shoes, and now it is her turn to provide comfort, to let him know there’s plenty of time. She doesn’t want to go to the hospital until the contractions are five minutes apart, and so they wait. The progression to nine minutes, then eight, then seven is alarmingly fast, and by the time she agrees that they should head to the hospital she’s starting to feel pressure low in her pelvis. Mulder drives too fast, the streets thankfully still quiet in the early morning, and she is wheeled into labor and delivery with not enough time for an epidural, much to her lament.

Molly Katherine Mulder has blue eyes and a dark shock of nearly-black hair. She barely cries at her entrance to the world, instead searching the room with a curious gaze, squeezing her daddy’s finger with an impressively strong grip and latching like a pro. They are able to go home the following day, Scully wincing as she moves gingerly from the bed to the couch, rinsing her tender stitches with a bottle of warm water and bleeding through entire packages of overnight maxi pads in a day.

Mulder takes off work for two weeks and they spend blissful days curled up in bed with the baby nestled between them as Priscilla curiously sniffs around her, licking her hair with a rough tongue and making them laugh. Each time Scully wakes at night to nurse, Mulder insists she go back to sleep while he changes the baby and walks her around the quiet apartment until she is asleep, singing softly and lulling them both.

When Mulder returns to work, Scully insists that he get a full night's sleep and let her wake up with Molly, reasoning that she can take naps during the day. She does not, of course, take naps during the day. Instead she tries to keep the apartment clean, the clothes washed, the diapers taken out to the dumpster, the litter box scooped. She does too much, and he sees it each day as she grows more and more weary, more and more defeated, the bags under her eyes deepening in color and her mouth rarely hosting a smile. He begs her to let him do more, to ask less of herself, but she is stubborn and strong-willed, the very things he loves about her now keeping her from properly taking care of herself.

They struggle through sleep-deprived arguments over who left the breast milk out on the counter all night, why it matters if he changes the baby on the floor instead of the changing table, why Scully doesn’t want to supplement with formula so he can take some of the night feedings. Her doctor releases her as medically clear to have sex after six weeks and she cries as she tells him that she doesn’t feel ready, that she can’t imagine anything worse than sex right now, and he holds her as he tells her that he doesn’t care, that she should take as much time as she needs, that he can wait.

They struggle, and they thrive. Moments of absolute unadulterated joy are punctuated by intense despair and overwhelm. The gain of a family against the loss of a life where you could pick up and go, stay out until 2:00 am and make love in the middle of the day. They are happy, and they are stressed, and they face it together.

On a Saturday in December, Mulder wakes early and takes care of every conceivable task in the house; the laundry, the dishes, cleaning the bathroom, scooping the litter, buying the groceries. He checks every item off Scully’s to-do list and then takes Molly for a long drive, leaving Scully alone with nothing to do in hopes that she will rest for once. When they return from their excursion, he creeps into the quiet apartment with a sleeping baby in his arms and sets her in the bassinet by the couch. At first he thinks maybe Scully has gone out, but he finds her in bed asleep with soaking wet hair, Priscilla curled up behind her knees. He watches her for a bit, affection clutching at his chest, then changes into sweats and kicks Priscilla out so he can snuggle up behind Scully. It feels so infrequent that they just lay like this anymore; one of them is always about to get up with the baby, about to get ready for work, or doesn’t want to be touched after a tiny person has clung to them all day. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling her lavender bubble bath and feeling the rise and fall of her ribs against his chest. He doesn’t want to disturb her, but he can’t resist pressing a tiny kiss to the side of her neck.

“Mmmm,” she hums in response, twisting her body around so they are face to face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers.

“It’s okay. Where’s Molly?”

“She’s asleep in the living room.”

She sighs and snuggles closer to him, pressing her forehead into his chest and pushing one of her legs between his.

“This feels nice,” she says contentedly, and he brushes his hand softly up and down her back.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Tired. Frumpy. Like I haven’t put on real clothes or a stitch of makeup in three months,” she laments.

“Well, I’ll give you tired,” he says softly, “but I can’t agree on frumpy. I think you look very beautiful.”

She scoffs against his chest.

“You don’t have to placate me, Mulder. I know I’m a mess.”

“Maybe so, but you’re my mess,” he retorts, pushing his fingers into her hair to gently scratch her scalp.

She tilts her head up to look at him, appraising his face with a skeptical eye.

“Is this what you thought it was going to be like?” she asks, her tone open and vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, “I guess I didn’t really know what to expect.”

She sighs. “I just wish I knew when I might start to feel like myself again,” she says sadly. “I can’t help but feel like you’re not getting what you signed up for.”

“What do you mean?” he asks with a concerned frown.

He sees her eyes growing glassy, dampening with impending tears. “I mean the woman you asked out in the autopsy bay isn’t the one you’re with now,” she whispers, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

“That’s not even a little bit true,” he implores, cradling the back of her head with his hand. “You are everything you were then, and more. I’m amazed by you every day.”

She closes her eyes, a tear rolling across the bridge of her nose. He feels his chest ache; the need to make her understand is overwhelming.

“Hey,” he says, pulling the blankets back, “come here.”

He pulls her into a sitting position and slides off the bed, towing her along with him to sit on the edge of the mattress. He kneels on the floor between her knees, his hands on her hips.

“If you think for one second that I want to be with anyone but you, you’re fucking insane. I don’t care if you wear giant milk-stained T-shirts and have spit up in your hair for the rest of our lives, Scully. You’re it for me, okay?”

She pulls in a shuddering breath and wipes at her eyes, but won’t look at him.

“Stay here,” he commands, and disappears into the bathroom for a moment. When he comes back, he returns to his post kneeling at her feet.

“We knew this was going to be hard,” he says tenderly, holding one of her hands in his. “You said it yourself before Molly was born, that it would be the hardest time in our lives, and that we’d be at our worst. And I’m telling you that if this is your worst, sign me up, okay? It hasn’t changed how I feel about you.”

He holds up his other hand, a diamond ring perched between his thumb and forefinger.

“If you’re not ready to say yes yet, that’s okay, but I need you to know that I still want to marry you, Scully. I’ll wait forever if that’s what you need, but there hasn’t been a single day since I asked that I haven’t still meant it.”

Her tears have stopped, though her eyes are still wet and the tip of her nose is red. She looks from him to the ring and back, her eyebrows stitched in contemplation.

“I didn’t hear you ask me a question,” she says quietly, and he picks up on the slightest lilt of playfulness in her voice, which makes him break out into a smile.

“Dana Katherine Scully, love of my life, mother of my child, will you marry me?”

She smiles then, and he thinks his heart may burst right out of his chest.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” she answers, and he takes her left hand, slipping the ring on her finger.

She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him repeatedly, soft pecks devolving into lingering smooches as he shifts up slightly, pushing her back gently to recline on the bed. He moves over her, kissing along her jaw and down her neck, not going any further, not wanting to rush her.

She brings her hands to his hips, letting the tips of her fingers slip under the waist of his sweatpants, and his cock stirs. It’s been so, so, long, and he wants her desperately, but not until she’s ready. She pushes her hand down the front of his pants, gripping him as he grows hard under her touch. It’s overwhelming in the best way; he feels like a teenager being touched for the first time.

“I wanna have sex,” she breathes into his ear, the words rushing out quickly as though she’s afraid she might change her mind if she waits too long to say them.

He pulls back to look at her. “Are you sure?” he asks, and she nods, bringing her palm to his cheek before glancing at the ring on her finger and smiling.

They move slowly, though still with a sense of urgency that a baby sleeping in the next room brings. He pushes her shirt up and she lets him take it off, then slips the yoga pants off her hips, leaving her in basic black cotton briefs. He sees the hesitancy in her eyes as he looks at her body, now softer than it was before Molly, curvy in different places, purple streaks running from below her belly button to disappear under her panties.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing her chest, her breasts, her belly, running his tongue along the grooves of her stretch marks. He loops his thumbs under the waist of her panties and tugs them down slowly, quickly undressing before he rejoins her in the bed.

“Tell me if anything hurts, okay?” he asks with a serious expression, and she nods, letting her legs fall open as he settles between them. He lines himself up with her entrance and pushes in achingly slowly, watching her face raptly. Her mouth opens slightly, and she takes in a sharp little breath. He’s about to ask her if it hurts when she closes her eyes and her mouth drops open further as she breathes out “oh,” in a way that he knows means pleasure, not pain. When he’s all the way in, their hip bones pressed together tightly, he stills and kisses her for a while, feeling like he could melt into a puddle for how good everything feels. His heart, his mind, his body, he is all wrapped up in her and it’s exactly where he wants to be.

He begins to move, and she responds with an arch of her back and a little gasp, her hands clutching at his shoulders. Little by little, he increases his pace until he knows he won’t last much longer.

“What do you need?” he asks, and she brings her hand to her breast.

He dips his head, flicking at the hardened bud of her nipple, and feels her clench around him. He plays with the level of pressure, licking and sucking, pleasantly surprised that she is enjoying it even as her breasts have taken on a purely functional role these last few months.

She pulls in a huge breath, arching her back and pressing her head into the mattress and he groans as he feels her tighten around him. She emits a single piercing cry when she comes, stifling it with an arm slung across her mouth. He pours into her, burying his face in her neck, clinging to her like a life raft. She is, in fact, all he needs to survive.

Resting half his weight on the mattress beside her, he stays inside as they both come down, panting and smiling, brushing hands over each other’s skin, reconnecting.

“Ah!” Molly yells from the living room, and Mulder laughs.

“You’re being summoned,” Scully says with a tender smile.

He withdraws from her, handing her his T-shirt to clean up while he slips on his sweatpants and retrieves Molly from her bassinet.

“Guess what, Goose?” he says, using his special nickname for her, “Mommy and Daddy are getting married.”

“AH!” She squeals, flapping her arms.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files fanfic #alternate universe

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pochiperpe90 · 4 years

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[L’Officiel Hommes] Luca Marinelli, rising star of Italian cinema

To win his first film role, Luca Marinelli agreed to put on sixteen kilos. For the second, he had to shave his whole body and learn to walk in heels more than eight inches high.

"If I believe in the part, there is nothing I'm not willing to do," says the twenty-six-year-old protagonist of ‘The Solitude of Prime Numbers’, the film by Saverio Costanzo presented at last year's edition of the Venice Film Festival.

To play the role of a boy devoured by guilt due to an accident that happened to his sister, Marinelli did not hesitate to ruin his athletic physique by gorging himself on fats and carbohydrates, and giving up any activity for three months. As soon as he could, he started running again to lose the extra pounds. Between football and swimming he has always been used to playing sports. But the forced immobility had atrophied his muscles, and at the end of the first runs he ended up vomiting his soul from the effort. After a month of intense exercise, however, he had already lost the extra pounds.

"Changing your body makes you feel more vulnerable and you become prey to irrational fears: when I was fat I was afraid of dying every time I took the stairs, when I was hairless I was afraid that my eyebrows would never grow back," says the actor while he eats a salad sitting at the bar of the Palazzo della Triennale in Milan. "But it's always a very interesting experience", he continues, absently stroking the hairs on his forearm, still growing since the end of the shooting of “L’ultimo terrestre”, a film that will be released next year by Gipi, an Italian illustrator making his debut behind the movie camera. It’s a love story set against the backdrop of an invasion of extraterrestrials, in which Marinelli plays the role of a transvestite friend of the protagonist. To prepare for the part, the actor watched dozens of crossdresser and transgender footage and had to practice for hours walking with extravagant stilts instead of shoes.

“I was told that, as a woman, I move well and I'm quite beautiful. In short, the experience gave me a certain satisfaction”, he jokes, winking with gray-blue eyes.

Compared to the film debut of ‘Solitude of Prime Numbers’, this new film offers him a smaller role and visibility. But Marinelli is not concerned about this. He knows he was very lucky to end on the red carpet of one of the most important festivals in the world with the first film. And he would almost feel calmer if his career were to continue more gradually.

"It was so lightning fast that I was not prepared. Venice was a wonderful experience but I was in panic. In the evening I came home with a terrible headache, I felt like I had two tight screws in my skull. I almost felt at fault to start out so great. And now I'm happy to start again slowly”.

Marinelli finished high school in 2006 and three years later graduated from the Silvio D'Amico Academy of Dramatic Art in Rome. Before being chosen by Costanzo for the feature film that gave him notoriety with the public, he had already played several roles in the theater with directors such as Carlo Cecchi and Michele Monetta. His father, actor and film voice actor, tried to introduce him to the world of entertainment as a child, without achieving great results. He had made him voice the voices of Tip and Tap, the grandchildren of Mickey Mouse from the cartoons, and had offered him some amateur roles. Despite being fascinated by the profession, however, the son didn’t feel cut out to be an actor.

“As a child I was shy. I liked being the center of attention, but only with people I had a lot of confidence with. More than being observed, I was interested in observing the lives of others. Not the present ones, but the past ones”.

After high school, Marinelli enrolled in the faculty of archeology in Rome. But after two months in which he attended only lessons that had nothing to do with his course, he realized that the university wasn’t for him and threw himself into acting, overcoming the fears he carried within him since he was a child. Even today, however, it retains some of that shyness. To the point that, whenever he is about to go on stage, he has to resort to small exorcising rites to reduce tension and cancel thoughts. And when we ask him how it feels to tell a complete stranger about himself, he confesses to being a little nervous.

"This is my second interview. From the first, I came out as some kind of psycho. I hope this time it goes better”, he jokes.

He has pain in his neck from a fall that occurred a few days earlier and moves his torso in a slightly stiffly way. He jumped on the ball and crashed to the ground during a game of "calciotto", the eight-a-side football that is popular in Rome, the city where he was born and raised. Every time he turns his head he makes a grimace of pain. Apart from that, Marinelli seems to be quite at ease, and does not resort to clichés. Nor does he try to hide behind sophisticated characters: he wears a blue shirt, military green trousers and brown jacket, in a style that he simply defines "for men", made up of garments unearthed among vintage shops and thrift stalls rather than in the boutiques of the big names. He loves to run around with his bike, although he admits that the longest trip he has done was from Rome to Fregene with a friend. And as soon as he has a free moment he takes his dog Nonò, a foundling dachshund who also follows him on tour, and takes him around the capital for long walks in the company of Sandy, the dog who lives in his parents' house.

Even though he’s aware of the difficulties and uncertainties he risks facing in his profession, he speaks of his dreams with passion and without anguish. He would like to pursue a project as a director and is enthusiastic about the collaboration with Cecchi in “Sogno di una notte di mezza estate”, a piece with which he will tour Italy between November and February.

"I know that being an actor is a job with a very high risk of failure and depression, but for the moment I try to live this lucky moment to the fullest."

Marinelli is not religious, but he’s particularly fascinated by the figure of Christ. He loves reading books and watching films that tell the Nazarene in his human dimension (from the Gospel according to Matthew by Pasolini to Scorsese's Last Temptation of Christ), because when he sees a miracle he feels the "smell of burning" and is immediately distracted.

"The story of Jesus, understood as a simple person, is a proof of the wonderful things that man is capable of. And studying it helps to understand how far we live from the example that has been given to us".

Among the dreams in the drawer, remains to work with Eimuntas Nekrošius, the Lithuanian theater director who recently staged Albert Camus' Caligula in Rome. And with Pedro Almodovar, the master of Spanish cinema whose language he knows well. In fact, Marinelli's father spent his childhood in Argentina and passed on to his son his love for Spanish, which Luca speaks with a slight South American inflection.

Of course, the situation in Italy for novice actors is not reassuring. Most of his fellow academics are still looking for work. The lucky ones earn a few euros by acting in the theater or making fiction which is exhausting for the body and demoralizing for the spirit. The others are making a living with alternative uses waiting to be discovered.

“I'm working, but not because I'm the best of those who came out of my class. Luck matters a lot. In Italy the environment is closed and there is little money. Abroad, however, it seems that this art is much more accessible".

His response is interrupted by a strange sigh that sounds like a whale song. It’s the ringtone of his cell phone, a reconstruction of the original music used in the Greek tragedy. Marinelli doesn’t respond, but begins to show signs of unease. He noted that the Palazzo della Triennale hosts an exhibition of Pasolini's portraits that he would like to see. He has little time left, but he adores the poet and insists on entering.

Inside the exhibition, observe the black and white photos taken by Dino Pedriali in 1975 which show the artist reading in his villa in Chia, writing on an Olivetti 22 and walking on a bridge in Sabaudia with his hair down from the wind. Then he stops in front of a photo of Pasolini naked, portrayed in his bedroom.

"What a fascinating man, in this image he reminds me of the bad lieutenant in Abel Ferrara's film," he says as he heads towards the exit. Then, unexpectedly, he turns to his interviewer and asks him with the relieved tone of someone who knows he has completed a business: "Prof, how did the exam go?".

“I'd give you a nice twenty-eight”, we reply according to the game.

"Okay, I accept it".

L’Officiel Hommes

Just wanted to translate this old interview for the non-italian’s fans ^^ (sorry for my English)

#Luca Marinelli #interview #english translation #english #mine #l'ultimo terrestre #la solitudine dei numeri primi #2011 #magazine #L’Officiel Hommes #Roberta

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