#no major warning

[chaotic-aro-incarnate]

Collection Of My Disco Elysium Screenshots That I Like A Lot

#disco elysium #harry du bois #harrier du bois #somehow my harry went all off-putting and strange and apocalyptic on me #started as a sorry cop; became a cop of the apocalypse #I hear about all the other cop types a lot but I've never heard anyone mention being the cop of the apocalypse #are the majority of people not going the whole 'warning the world about the end times' route?

[drudyslut]

— summary: Rafe finds out about some of your darkest fantasies and decides to bring them to life.

— warnings: smut! 18+ non/dub con, kidnapping, rafe chases reader through the woods, bondage, open-mouth gag, breath play, edging, fingering, ass play, biting, forced blow job, knife play, forced unprotected sex, forced creampie, spitting, slapping, spanking, branding, hair pulling, choking, degrading, praise kink, sir kink, possessive!rafe, sub!reader, dark!rafe. (is this considered DDDNE?)

— note: my book series has sparked the DARKEST parts of my mind… please read all warnings carefully! this is a work of fiction! if you’re uncomfortable with anything in the warnings, DO NOT READ. DO NOT READ UNLESS 18+ !!

likes, comments + reblogs are appreciated <3

❥ run, little one— r.c

Y/N

“Run, little one! ‘Cause when I catch you, you’re going to wish I hadn’t”

Rafe’s voice booms through the dark woods, my pulse is racing, blood rushing to my ears, nothing but the sounds of my heavy breathing and ringing fill my ears. My eyes scan the length of the woods, I have no clue where I am, and i’m terrified, but i’m also soaked.

Thoughts of what Rafe would do to me when he catches me have my panties dripping with my arousal, pussy pulsing with need. It may be fucked up, but the fear of the unknown, the thought of the pain he’d bring me is what got me excited. The pure rush of adrenaline, not having a choice in anything, him being forceful and rough with me— it excited me.

The sound of a branch snapping behind me makes me gasp, my feet taking off through the woods again, running, hoping I can find anywhere to hide. I take a turn, thinking i’d finally lost him but a loud scream is ripped from my chest when I run into something hard, the impact knocking the breath out of me and making me fall right on my ass.

“Shhhh, don’t worry princess, ‘m gonna take good care of you” Rafe whispers in my ear.

I feel something slapped over my mouth, preventing me from screaming and then my vision goes black. My eyes rip open, realizing i’d been dreaming, but now i’m not. My face is covered by a black hood, duct tape over my lips, making unintelligible noises fall from me. I hear the sound of metal clanking, and Rafe roughly forces my arms behind my back, crossing them before slapping handcuffs on and tightening them so tight they pinch at the skin of my wrists.

Rafe lifts me from the bed and tosses me over his shoulder. I begin pounding at his back as best I could with my restrained fists, screaming into the duct tape, trying to fight for him to put me down, but it’s useless.

A harsh slap is landed across my ass cheek, exposed by the short sleep shorts i’d put on before my nap, making me whimper from the contact.

The sound of a door opening and closing makes me jump, the cool fall air hitting at my skin and sending goosebumps up my body. What is he doing? Where is he taking me? I was terrified, but I was also ashamed at how soaked I was, my pussy throbbing as he carried me outside and to God knows where.

I hear him open a car door, my body being tossed into the back seat before he slams the door shut and hopping into the driver seat.

I hear the truck pull out onto the road, the windows rolling down and letting the cold air slap at my bare skin. I try my best to roll onto my stomach in the seat, my handcuffed wrists pinned underneath my back uncomfortable and making me whine.

I try and shout through the tape some more, wanting answers as to what was going through Rafe’s mind, but my body sags into the backseats, remembering it’s useless, my mouth is literally taped shut.

“Don’t worry, little one. We’re gonna have some fun”

I whimper at his words as he turns the radio in his truck up, “Church” by Chase Atlantic the last thing I hear before my mind goes blank.

-

RAFE

I pull down the long and over grown driveway, the large cabin that’s sat abandoned for few years finally coming into view. I smirk to myself, my eyes glancing up into the rearview mirror to see Y/N laid still in the backseat. She’d finally stopped whimpering and squirming about thirty minutes into the drive, probably made herself pass out, she was exhausted, and I had woken her from her nap to have some fun.

My girl doesn’t know it, but i’ve been reading her dream journals, her diaries, getting an inside peek at her dark and dirty mind. My girl wants to be chased, wants to be bound and gagged, having any choice or control taken from her. She wants me to be forceful with her, she wants me to hurt her, make her cry, make her beg me to stop— when her mind and pussy are really begging me to continue.

She has no idea what I have in store for her tonight, and the thought of her whimpering, unable to see, speak, breathe, tell me no. It had my cock straining against the fabric of my jeans.

I pull the truck to a stop, shutting the engine off and hopping out to open the back seat door. “Time to wake up, little one. Let the fun begin” I whisper in her ear, the weight of my body pressing down on her bare legs.

She begins squirming in the seat, the sounds of her muffled cries filling my ears, blood rushing to my already painfully hard cock. She must have thought she was still dreaming this whole time, and waking up — completely stripped of her ability to see or speak — She must be terrified again, exactly how I want her.

I carefully scoop her body into my arms, her head and legs trashing from side to side as unintelligible noises fall past her lips. I walk us into the cabin, glancing around at everything i’d set up, i’d been planning this for weeks, getting everything i’d need to have some fun with my girl. There’s a large mattress sitting on a metal bed frame pushed against the wall, laid out on it are ropes, an open-mouth gag, a silky red blindfold, various toys, and a long paddle whip that has the word WHORE engraved into it.

Smirking to myself, I continue walking through the old cabin and out the back door. When I finally decide we’re far enough into the woods, I set her body down on the ground, removing the black hood from her head and yanking the duct tape from her lips.

Her eyes rip open, going wide as she whips her head around, taking in her surroundings. “R-Rafe? Where- Where are we? Why did you fucking kidnap me?!” She shouts, a small look of fear in her eyes.

I smirk, “You’ll get a five minute head start, little one” I pause, watching in amusement as her chest heaves up and down, my eyes scanning over her plump breasts as they threaten to spill out of the small top she’s wearing. “Hope you can run fast, and hide well. Because if I catch you, you’re mine to use however I want”

She begins struggling to stand, her wrists still cuffed behind her back making a fairly simple task more difficult. I watch her struggle for a moment before I bend over and grip the inside of her left arm, jerking her to her feet. She winces when rocks and twigs begin stabbing at the bottoms of her bare feet, “Rafe! This isn’t funny, undo the cuffs, I wanna go home”

“Now, now Y/N.. I’ve read your dream journals, your diaries. I know all of the sick and twisted dreams and thoughts you have. I know exactly what you want me to do to you, why should I deprive you of what you want?”

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head, her face turning a deep shade of red, shame taking over her features when she hears the words that slip past my lips. I take a step toward her, and she flinches back, but it doesn’t stop me. I reach my hand out, the pad of my thumb running over her mascara stained cheek, “No need to be ashamed, we all have our kinks baby” I pause, placing my hand on the back of her head and pulling her forehead into my lips, kissing softly at the skin before I pull back and whisper, “Now run”

-

Y/N

“Now run”

His words make my heart begin hammering in my chest, my body turning as I begin running through the dark woods. I’m dodging trees, trying not to scream out in pain as twigs, and rocks and God knows what else stabs at the bottom of my feet.

My ears begin ringing, my head throbbing when I come to a stop, trying my hardest to catch my breath. My head whips from side to side, trying to find anywhere to hide, but all I see if acres and acres of woods. The sound of a twig snapping close by makes me take off running again, I run and run, afraid to stop. I shouldn’t be so turned on, but I am. Part of me wants to get caught, wants to let him use me however he pleases, but the smallest part inside me that says to keep running wins.

I come to another stop after what felt like hours of running, my back pressed against a tree. My throat is sore, lips and mouth dry from my heavy breathing. I peek around the side of the tree, but all I see if darkness. I let out a sigh of relief thinking i’d lost him for the time being, but that thought is quickly gone when I feel rough hands grabbing the backs of my arms, twisting them in an uncomfortable way, making me scream out in pain.

“Caught you” I hear Rafe say, voice low and raspy.

I begin kicking and screaming, trying to push myself out of his grip, but it’s no use, he’s got me in a tight hold. He lifts my feet from the ground, tossing me over his shoulder as he begins walking through the woods. I don’t stop fighting, my body thrashing in his hold. “Rafe! Rafe stop!” I shout, but he ignores me, continuing his way through the woods until he finally comes to a stop.

“Time to have some fun, yeah?” He asks. He lands a harsh slap across my ass again, making me whimper from the contact, the sting his hand left behind making my pussy throb.

He walks us up some stairs, and into an old house. The house smells musty, the air stale, and the floors are covered in leaves and trash. “Where are we?” I ask softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“This, little one, is our playroom” He says simply, tone of voice void of any emotion.

I let my eyes trail upward, finding a large bed on a metal frame pushed against a wall. My heart begins pounding, the loud thump of my own heart the only noise I can hear in the moment. He has the bed laid out with ropes, a wooden paddle, a few toys, an open-mouthed gag, and a red blindfold.

My mind tells me I should be afraid, but my body doesn’t react that way. My nipples harden underneath the thin fabric of my small shirt i’d tossed on earlier, panties now soaked, likely dripping with my arousal.

Rafe uses one hand to tightly wrap around the underside of my knees, keeping me in place on his shoulder while his free hand begins moving the things on the bed, clearing an open space for me to be laid down.

Once satisfied with the now open space on the bed, he flips me off his shoulder and onto the bed, my still handcuffed wrists pinning beneath me on the bed, making me wince in pain. I watch him intently as he makes his way toward a small table that’s off to the corner, grabbing the rope he’d just removed from the bed.

He makes his way to the end of the bed, grabbing my right ankle and tying the rope around it before securing the other end to one end of the metal bed frame, moving to my left ankle and repeating his actions. Satisfied with my bound ankles, he digs into his pocket, digging out a key that I can only assume belongs to the cuffs that restrain my wrists. He grips my by the top of my head, fingers tightly fisting at my hair and yanking me into a sitting position, sticking the key into the lock of the cuffs and undoing them.

I bring them to the front of my body to rub them. they’re now red and sore from how tightly he had them on my wrists, but he quickly pushes me onto my back, “don’t get too comfortable, little one” he says, a smirk plastered on his beautiful face while he climbs on top of me, straddling my waist. He harshly grabs my left wrist, pulling it above my head and reaching over to the table to grab the other set of rope he had. He pins my wrist against another metal bar, tying my wrist to it before moving to my right side and copying his actions.

He climbs off of me, his bottom lip between his teeth as his darkened over eyes scan my body. “Fucking gorgeous” He whispers, and my body jerks. I instinctively try and yank my wrists down, making the rope dig into them, making me pathetically whimper.

Rafe walks back over toward the table, pulling his tightly fitted black shirt over his head and tossing it down. I can’t help but let my eyes trail over his perfectly sculpted chest and abdomen. He grabs the open mouthed gag off the table before slowly making his way back over to me. I try and fight my restraints again, but stop when he harshly grips at the back of my head, yanking my neck up and forcing my eyes on the ceiling.

“Don’t fight this, princess. Okay?”

I whimper out an “okay” before he lets my head go, my neck returning back to a normal forward facing position. He brings his fingers to my slightly parted lips, pushing them inside my mouth and down my throat, making me gag around the thick digits before he pulls them out. “Keep your mouth open”

I obey, keeping my mouth open as wide as I could get it while he places the circular part of the gag into my mouth and behind my teeth. He pulls both sides of the leather straps around my head, buckling it together and tightening it so it’s secure. He pulls back and admires his work, my mouth spread wide open, hands and legs bound to the bed frame, spread open wide for him to use.

“Perfect” He says, the corners of his lips pulling into a smirk.

-

RAFE

The sight before me is like something straight out of my dreams. She looks so fucking gorgeous like this, her arms and legs tied to the bed frame, spread wide open for me to use, her mouth gagged, but still open wide for me, allowing me access to shove my cock down her throat, spit into her mouth, shove my fingers into her throat. I trail my eyes from her beautiful face down to her glistening cunt, she’s fucking soaked for me, ready to be fucking used.

I climb myself onto the bed, her arms and legs jerking, pulling the ropes tighter into her smooth skin. Drool is running from her mouth, down her chin and onto her plump breasts, whimpers and whines falling from her as she continues to try and fight the restraints.

“Keep fighting Y/N/N, I want you scared. I prefer it actually, it’ll make forcing my cock down your throat and in your cunt that much more fun”

I reach over onto the small side table and grab the blindfold, the sounds of her whimpers bouncing off the walls of the old cabin, making my hard cock pulse. I crawl up the bed, sitting between her spread thighs and bringing the blindfold up to her face. She whines, shaking her head from side to side, but I grip her cheeks harshly with my left hand. “Stay still” I demand, and she quickly obeys, stopping her movements, her beautiful, wide eyes staring back into mine.

I quickly place the silky material over her eyes, bringing the two ends around the back of her head and tying it as tightly as I could.

Her breathing picks up, chest heaving up and down rapidly once i’ve taken away her sight once again. I smirk to myself and reach into my back pocket, pulling out my phone and turning the back camera toward her trembling body, snapping a quick picture of her before locking it and tossing it to the table.

I reach into my other back pocket, pulling out a pocket knife and flipping it open. I hear her whimper at the sound of the knife opening, her arms jerking downward some more as she spews unintelligible words from her drooling lips. I bring the blade down to her inner thigh, running it up the length of her leg until it reaches her clothed pussy. “Let’s get these off, yeah?” I say lowly before bringing the blade to one of the leg holes of her shorts, slicing upward until the material pools by the sides of her legs.

My eyes find her cunt again, staring at the wet spot that’s soaked through the pink lacey material. “My girls fucking soaked, you like having no control?”

She whines, her head slowly nodding. I bring the blade back up to the waistband of her panties, running the sharp end across her stomach before I cut her panties off of her body as well. I tap at her thigh, ordering her, “Lift your hips, little one”

She quickly does as I say, lifting her hips as best she could off the mattress, allowing me to pull the now ruined shorts and panties from underneath her. Tossing the shredded material to the floor, I bring the blade back to her pussy, flipping it so the blade is in my palm. I run the handle of the pocket knife through her slick cunt, running it up to her clit and applying a small amount of pressure. Her hips buck forward and I take my free hand, pushing her hips back down and holding her in place. I run the handle back down to her folds, slowly pushing it into her pussy, stopping when the entire handle is inside of her.

She begins whimpering, her chest heaving and head rolled to the side as I begin pulling the handle from her cunt, pushing it back inside of her just as quickly. I love the way her body reacts to me, the way she’s letting me fuck her with the handle of my knife, my filthy fucking girl loves this shit.

I continue to fuck her with the handle of the knife and her body begins shaking, her legs tensing as her restrained fists ball above her head. “That’s it baby, let it out, cum all over the handle of my knife”

She begins panting, drool running down the sides of her mouth and down her chin, soaking her chest as she comes undone, her cum soaking the handle. I slowly pull it from inside her, bringing it to her open mouth and shoving it inside, running it up and down the length of her tongue, coating her mouth with her juices. “Good girl. Taste yourself, you did such a good job f’me, little one”

I pull the handle from her mouth, her head flying forward and chasing it, making me breathe out a laugh. I quickly flip the knife shut and sit it on the small table. I stand from the bed, and my hands pop the button of my jeans before moving the the zipper. I slide the rough material down my legs and to my ankles before kicking them to the side. I palm myself through my boxers, trying to relieve some of the pressure I felt from just staring at her like this, thinking of how she just came from the handle of my knife, it has my head spinning, my cock throbbing.

I shake my head, shoving my boxers down my legs and kicking them to the side as well before climbing back into the bed, her breath hitching in her throat when she feels my presence on the mattress again. I bring my hand to her face, wiping at the fresh tears that have fallen down her face, smearing more of her mascara on her face. I run the pad of my thumb over her bottom lip, it’s soaked in her drool. I push my thumb into her mouth, and she instinctively tries to close her lips around it, but fails, the metal part of the gag keeping her mouth open wide for me.

I lean myself into her, my lips ghosting over the shell of her ear. “‘M gonna fuck your throat now, little one, and you’re going to fucking love it”

-

Y/N

His words whispered in my ear send goosebumps down my body, my more breathing erratic than it had already been. I try and swallow, but fail, the gag in my mouth making it difficult to do anything but drool all over myself. He’s barely touched me, and I can guarantee I look like a fucked out mess.

I feel his hand on my cheek again, his waist now straddling my chest as he runs his thumb over the length of my face and lips. He shoves two fingers down my throat again, holding them there as I gag around them. Pulling them from my throat, he demands, “Stick your tongue out” and I quickly obey, sticking my tongue out for him. I feel him spit into my mouth, the saliva hitting the flat of my tongue, and sliding into the back of my throat. I bring my tongue back into my mouth, and wince when I feel a harsh smack landed across my face.

“I didn’t say you could do anything, tongue back out. Now” Rafe says, tone harsh and demanding. I quickly push my tongue back out, the swollen head of his cock slapping against it as he groans.

I feel him slide his head into my mouth slowly and he moans, the feel of the circular metal part of the gag in my mouth squeezing at him tightly. He continues to push himself further into my mouth until he finally reaches the back of my throat, his swollen tip kissing the back of my throat making me gag. Saliva pools in my mouth, drool running down the sides of my lips when he begins slowly pulling himself back out, slamming his hips forward again. I gag around him, trying to swallow the saliva in my mouth, but I can’t, the gag makes it hard to do anything.

He places one hand on my cheek, his free hand moving to the back of my head and gripping at my hair, his grip tight and bruising. He quickly settles on a harsh and quick pace of his hips, pulling himself back and slamming his pelvis into my face. My mouth is forced open wide for him, allowing him to fuck my throat with ease. He begins grunting loudly, his hips stuttering before he quickly pulls his hips back, spit flying from my mouth as I cough and gasp, trying to catch my breath.

“Goddamn. You took me so well, such a good fucking girl…” He rasps, his left hand finding my cheek, stroking down the soft skin. He takes his free hand and brings it between my legs, running his fingers through my arousal slick folds, sucking in a sharp breath when he feels just how soaked I am.

“You’re soaked, sweetheart. You like being forced to do things? Like having your body used?”

I whimper at his words, every single one of them were true. I hated my body for reacting to such vile things, such forceful and disgusting behavior, but I couldn’t help it. Was there something wrong with me? Surely it’s not normal to get aroused at the thought of — or the action itself — being used, hurt, given no choice in the matter. But I could no longer deny it, my body craved the unknown, craved the fear and the pain, I wanted to be used, forced to do whatever he wanted me to do. I loved being his good girl, and I loved being his whore.

Rafe reaches behind my head, fingers grabbing at the buckle that strapped the gag to my face. He quickly undoes it and pulls the straps down the sides of my face before reaching inside my mouth and pulling the circular metal part out. I snap my mouth shut, swallowing thickly and licking at my lips. My jaw and throat hurt, but it was well worth it.

He leaves me blindfolded, but I feel his hands moving to the rope that bound my legs to the bed. I hear his pocket knife flip open, the ropes being cut from my ankles and allowing me the slightest bit of freedom. He moves to cut my wrists free next, but before he does, he orders me, “Don’t move, i’ll reposition you, alright?”

I nod my head, forgetting I have the freedom to speak now. His fingers tightly grip at my cheeks, squeezing them tightly and I feel tears begin to fill my eyes, “When I speak to you, you answer me. Got it?”

“Y-Yes, sir” I manage to choke out, my fresh tears finally falling and soaking into the blindfold.

He finally cuts the ropes that bound my wrists, my arms falling limp by my sides. I quickly bring them up, rubbing softly at the skin of my wrists, trying to ease the pain i’d felt, but the action is short lived, a high pitched squeal emitting from me when Rafe yanks me from my sitting position, tossing me onto my stomach.

-

RAFE

“Hands behind your back, knees underneath your stomach” I demand, and she quickly does as I ask. She places her arms behind her back and crosses them over one another before she brings her knees up and tucks them underneath her stomach, letting her ass sit up in the air, giving me a perfect view of her soaked cunt and puckered ass.

I land a harsh slap to her ass, leaving a perfect handprint on the skin and causing her to cry out from the sting. I smirk to myself before I reach over and grab the cuffs again, placing the first cuff on her right wrist and locking it tightly in place, moving on to her left and doing the same. I smile once I have her wrists tightly locked in place, moving to grab the now cut rope from the bed and placing on the undersides of her ankles, wrapping it around a few times before pulling it up the underside of her body and through the chains of the cuffs. I pull the excess rope back down to her ankles and tie them tightly together, making it to where her cuffed wrists are bound together with her tied ankles.

“You look so goddamn beautiful like this” I say while my hand lands another harsh slap to her ass. My hands fly to her ass, gripping the plump flesh tightly and spreading her cheeks for me. I gather saliva in my mouth and spit down onto her untouched hole, moving my thumb to it and rubbing at it slowly, spreading my spit around. I slowly shove my thumb into her ass, making her hiss. “R-Rafe?” She cries out, her body rocking back and forth as I slowly push my thumb in and out of her.

“You want me to fuck your ass baby? Hmm? Would you like me to claim this hole too?”

She whimpers, her body tightening as she tries to fight her restraints. I pull my thumb from her ass and run my index and middle finger through her cunt, she’s soaked. “You’re so wet, princess. I think you want me to fuck your ass” I tease, before saying “But that’ll be another time. ‘M gonna stretch your ass in time, make it ready for my cock. For now, ‘m gonna fuck this sweet cunt, and you’re gonna take it”

“R-Rafe… Please?” She begs, the sound of her sweet, pathetic voice makes my cock throb. I run my fingers through her slick cunt again, pushing them inside of her and scissoring them to stretch her open. I begin pushing them in and out of her slowly, adding a third to stretch her more. Her body begins rocking back and forth, fucking herself onto my fingers, “That’s it baby, fuck my fingers, show me how badly you want me”

Weak whimpers and moans fall from her lips as she continues rocking her hips, fucking herself onto my fingers. I feel her pussy clamp down around them, her body tensing as she’s about to cum and I quickly remove them from inside her.

She whines at the loss of my fingers, “Rafe. Please?” She begs, and I let out a dark laugh. “Please what? Gotta tell me what you want, princess”

I hear her sniffle, “Want to cum, please? Let me cum” I slide my tongue across my top teeth and smile to myself, “Well, since you asked so nicely” I grip the base of my cock, stroking it a few times before pushing it inside of her wet cunt. I groan, throwing my head back when I feel her warm, wet walls grip my cock tightly.

She’s whimpering, unintelligible words falling from her beautiful mouth as I continue to fuck into her. She tries to fight the restraints again, body thrashing every time the head of my cock hits at her sweet spot. I lean my body forward, pressing my weight into her back as I slowly pull out, slamming my hips forward again and making her cry out.

I slap my hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, her tears falling down her face and onto my hand has my dick twitching, but I try and hold out. “‘M gonna take your air away now baby, try not to pass out on me” I whisper in her ear before my index finger and thumb pinch over her nose. She begins fighting me and her restraints hard, trying to fight my hand that’s over her mouth and pinching her nose closed, but I wrap my free hand around her waist, hand splayed across her stomach and hold her still.

Her pussy pulses around my cock, making me growl in her ear, “Fuck, you’re cunt is squeezin’ me so tightly baby, lack of oxygen turns you on?”

I chuckle when I hear her mumble into my hand, leaning my head down to her shoulder and sinking my teeth into her smooth skin. She stops fighting, her body growing weak from the lack of oxygen. Her pussy clenches around me tightly, her body beginning to go slack in my arms and I release my hand from her face. Her head shoots up, the sounds of her coughing and gasping for air bouncing off the walls.

“You did so good, little one. So good. Cum all over my cock and we can go home” I whisper in her ear, my teeth nibbling at her lobe. She lets out a loud, pornographic moan while her pussy clamps down on my dick, her body tensing and toes curling as she comes undone around me.

I pull myself back once more, slamming myself inside her while my dick twitches inside of her, my cum shooting inside of her and painting her inner walls white. I slowly thrust myself in a few more times, shoving my cum deep inside her cunt before I slowly pull out. I watch my cum slowly drip from her cunt before I drop to my back on the bed, chest heaving as I try and catch my breath.

Rolling my head to the side, I take in her exhausted body, limp and breathing heavily. I grab my pocket knife from the table, cutting at the rope around her ankles before cutting it free from around the chains of the cuffs. I toss my knife to the side, grabbing the key and undoing the cuffs, removing them and tossing them to the side as well. I scoop her limp body into my arms, running a hand across her cheek before using my free hand to pull the blindfold up and off her head.

Her eyes spring open, blinking a few times to try and adjust to the dark room. Her beautiful eyes find my blue ones and she weakly smiles up at me, making my pulse race and heart hammer in my chest. She’s always been so beautiful, but something about her fucked out look, mascara stained cheeks and heavy eyes has me falling more in love with her.

I lie her body onto the mattress, placing a soft kiss on her sweat slick forehead before standing and grabbing my boxers from the floor. I pull them up my legs and rush out to the truck, having one more thing I want to do before we go home, one thing that will let her, and everyone else know she’s mine, forever.

I open up the driver side door, grabbing the blow torch and tongs from the passenger seat and rushing back inside. I find her lying still on the bed, the sound of her even breathing filling my ears, and for a moment, I almost feel guilty that i’m about to wake her up again.

I slowly walk toward her, sitting on the bed, my weight making it dip in. “Baby, wake up. There’s one more thing to do, and then i’ll take you home and take care of you”

Her heavy eyes slowly open, blinking a few times before she whimpers, “Please, Rafe. I can’t. No more” I smirk to myself, she thinks i’m going to fuck her again, but no, no what i’m about to do will be more permanent than anything I can ever give her with my cock.

“‘S okay baby, just gonna do something to remind you and everyone else who you belong to, then we’ll go home” I whisper before quickly lighting the blow torch up. Her head shoots up off the mattress, eyes wide as she shakes her head from side to side. I remove my gold signet ring with my initials on it, and grab the circular end with the tongs, sticking the bulky end that rests on the top of my finger under the blue flame.

“Rafe, what’re you doing?” She asks, her voice shaking as her eyes dart from the ring under the flame to me. The corners of my lips lift up in a grin, “Marking you. You’re mine, and everyone will know it”

I use my free hand to reach over and grab a piece of rope from the floor, handing it to her and ordering her, “Bite down on this”

She hesitates, but ultimately does what I ask, placing the rough material between her teeth and biting down on it harshly. Once I feel like i’ve held the ring under the flame long enough, I shut off the torch and sit it at my feet. I turn my body to face her, and her eyes are swimming in unshed tears, “It’ll only hurt for a second” I tell her, and her head slowly nods up and down.

I spread her legs with my free hand, slapping harshly at her inner thigh before I bring the hot ring to her skin. She cries out in pain, body shaking as I hold the end of my gold ring to her skin. Her body goes slack, tears rolling down her cheeks when I pull it from her skin. I can’t help the large smile that spreads across my face when I look down and see a perfectly shaped small square with the letter “RC” branded into her soft skin.

Her body is still shaking, tears falling uncontrollably down her cheeks as she lets out choked sobs. I quickly stand and dress myself before tossing the hoodie of mine i’d brought over her weak body, lifting her into my arms and carrying her out to the truck.

I runs hand through her sweat slick hair, pushing it back from her face as I lean forward and press my lips to her forehead, “I love you, Y/N. You’re mine, now and forever. Let’s get you home and cleaned up”

She lets out a soft whimper, her face buried into my chest as she manages to whisper, “I love you too”

RAFE TAGLIST: @rafeism @thelomlisrafecameron @rafegirly @f4ll-for-you @drewstarkeyslut @lizcameron @dilvcv @thewitchesofart @rafesgfxo @unsaidjaelinrose @abbybarnesstuff @itsmytimetoodream @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles @r1vrsefx @yourfavborderhopper @moremaybank @rafetopia @rafemotherfuckingcameron @jade-is-jaded @lexasaurs634 @lyndys @presleyanswrites @carma-fanficaddict @rafescokenostril @madzzz0797 @slytherhoes @jscameron @jjsmarijuana @ijustwanttoreadlols @luversgirl @sugarcoatedstarkey @skyesthebomb @nirvanaissogood @stvrkey @vhour @emma77645 @rafeinterlude @superlegend216 @mannstarkey @digitaldiary111 @spideysimpossiblegirl @redhead1180 @crgirlsworld @atorturedpoetx @carolinaxvz @maybankslover @cantstoptherecs @pradabambie @slut4ani @kamninaries

rafe masterlist | taglist form | main masterlist

#ddne #rafe cameron #dark!rafe x reader #dark!rafe #major trigger warnings #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe x you #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron brainrot #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x kook!reader #smut warning #dark smut

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

putting my prediction on record now that the coming decade is going to see the rise of viral-marketed fancy at-home water filtration systems, driving and driven by a drastic reduction in the quality of U.S. tap water (given that we are in a 'replacement era' where our current infrastructure is reaching the end of its lifespan--but isn't being replaced). also guessing that by the 2030s access to drinkable tap water will be a mainstream class issue, with low-income & unstably housed people increasingly forced to rely on expensive bottled water when they can't afford the up-front cost of at-home filtration--and with this being portrayed in media as a "moral failing" and short-sighted "choice," rather than a basic failure of our political & economic systems. really hope i'm just being alarmist, but plenty of this already happens in other countries, and the U.S. is in a state of decline, so. here's praying this post ages into irrelevance. timestamped April 2023

#apollo don't fucking touch this one #serious post #not a shitpost #hope i forget about this post and have no reason to ever look back on it one day #fyi i'm aware that access to potable water is already a major issue in parts of the U.S. yes i know flint michigan exists #i'm saying that this issue is going to GROW unless local & federal governments work together to fix it. #so it's a matter of if we trust them to fix it. And well--do you? #what are the chances the government just denies there's a problem until the water actually turns brown #at which point it's already been common knowledge for years and people have just become resigned and that's our new normal #i'm mean come on. how many of us already believe that we're being exposed to dangerous pollutants we don't know about and can't avoid #like that's pretty much just part of being a modern consumer. accepting that companies will happily endanger your life for a few pennies #and the most you'll get is like a $50 gift card as part of a class action rebate 20 years down the line #probably the history books will look back on Flint as a warning and a harbinger that went ignored #luxury condos will advertise their built-in top-of-the-line filtration systems--live here and you can drink water straight from your tap! #watch the elite professional class putting $700 dyson water filtration systems on their wedding registry #while the rest of us figure out how to fit water delivery into our grocery budget while putting 90% of our paycheck towards rent #also eggs are $15

[achenetype]

Hihi can you please do a Luke x reader where it’s basically an unrequited love like reader is so in love with Luke and he has no idea so she moves on and years later she’s over him and confesses to him like a oh I thought you should know and the whole time Luke had been in love with her, kinda base it off that one TikTok audio where it’s like “I’m not in love with you anymore” “I never knew you were” 🩷🩷

OHH YOURE FEEDING MY ANGST BRAIN WITH THIS ONE. buckle up lets break some hearts

edit: this ended up being WAY sadder than i originally intended. i am so sorry anon oh my god

i gave you a rare gift (but you didn't want it) — luke castellan

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

content: angst, major character/reader death, unrequited love, mutual pining, reader is part of kronos' army, luke and reader are doomed by the narrative, [Y/N] used (sparingly), alcohol mention, description of injury

listening to: bloodfest (from mizumono) by brian reitzell

You are twenty-two years old, sitting on the rocky beach of a lake somewhere in the forests of upstate New York. Light, gentle fog hangs in the air around you, and the only sound is the tap-tap-tap of Luke skipping rocks across the water.

Come dawn, the world will burn. The gods will be dethroned. Every demigod will either be free, or dead.

But now, at midnight, you are twenty-three and Luke turns to you. He's holding a small, squashed cupcake in one hand. "Happy birthday," he says, "to my right-hand man." He pauses. "Woman. Right-hand woman."

He holds the pastry out to you and smiles, but something behind his eyes is empty. Hollow. He hadn't been sleeping recently. As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop you from seeing when he came to you every morning for a cup of coffee and to debrief for the day.

Perks of being the revolution leader's best friend, you think. His right-hand woman.

Luke's eyes flick from the cake to your face. "Do you like it?" He asks, and for a split second, you swear there's a note of hope in his voice. "I wanted to do something, y'know," he says. "Twenty-three is huge. It's a monumental age."

You nod, but stay quiet.

He pauses for a second. "You remember how you always said you wished you never had a birthday?"

When you were twelve, nearly thirteen, your mother drove you across the country to go to summer camp.

"It'll be like a road trip," she said, tossing your duffel bag into the back seat of her battered car. "And then, hey, you'll only stay at camp until the end of August, and then you can come back and go to school. See all your friends again." She squeezed your shoulder and pushed the car door closed. "How about that?"

"Sure," you said. "Super fun."

And it was; you were actually kind of excited. You'd never been to New York. It seemed a million universes away.

And it was your birthday tomorrow. Maybe this was a gift, something that your mother had put together to make up for the years of being too tired and too drunk to make a cake, or get presents, or anything.

Your mother put her hands on her hips and sighed. "You know how I feel about the attitude, yeah? Let's not do this today."

"I wasn't even trying to—" You cut off as your mother glared at you, her face tense. You knew that look: the biting-the-inside-of-her-cheek, trying-to-be-understanding, trying-to-be-a-good-mom-despite-it-all look.

You hated that look.

"Just..." She sighed. "Just get in the damn car, [Y/N]."

You did, fighting back the tears building in the corners of your eyes, and the slam of the car door closing was as loud as thunder.

Twenty silent minutes of city streets and highway merge ramps and cold, empty stretches of asphalt and concrete passed before either of you spoke.

"Mom," you said, thirty-three seconds into minute twenty-one, "I'm sorry for talking back earlier." Your voice was quiet, shaking, cupped in your throat like a scared animal.

She didn't answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

"I don't like being like this, Mom," you said, looking over at her. The silhouette of her through the driver's side window, backlit by the streetlights, was shapeless. Impassive. "I don't like doing this with you all the time."

She scoffed.

You pulled your legs to your chest, tucking your head between your knees, and tried to find sleep.

You weren't sure how long you slept, but you woke up to the sound of music playing softly over the speakers. Exit signs whizzed past you at what felt like breakneck speed. You wondered, briefly, if you would break your neck if you jumped out of the car right now.

Ultimately you decided against it. You didn't want your mother's last words to you to be, get in the damn car.

That would make her feel guilty, you thought, and that guilt would make her hate me even more.

"I don't wanna fight," you tried instead, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of your jacket sleeve. "Mom, I'm sorry, okay? I don't want us to be mad at each other anymore," you said. A sob caught in your throat, heavy and wet and choking.

Your mother sighed and reached one hand from the wheel to tuck your hair behind your ear. "I know you don't, sweetie," she said. "I don't want to be mad at you either."

"Then why do you do it," you asked.

When she turned to look at you, her eyes were wet. She smiled, or tried to. "Sometimes, certain people just…can't help but fight," she said. "It's just part of who we are, I think."

"Did you fight with Dad?"

Your mother inhaled, quick and sharp through her nose, as she flicked the turn signal to right and guided the car down the exit ramp from the highway, her eyes locked ahead. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes. Sometimes I think that's where we get it."

You swallowed. "Do you ever miss him?"

She doesn't peel her gaze away from the road. "Every day."

The two of you made your way through bustling streets and across too many bridges to count. You thought you fell asleep again, for a minute or maybe a year. Maybe it was all a dream.

"Mom," you asked as she turned onto a worn dirt road, the sunrise barely stretching over the horizon, "why are you bringing me here?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Two moments, then three. Through the leaves, you saw one tree standing impossibly tall. A pine tree.

Your mother parked the car and turned to you. "Because I don't know what to do with you, [Y/N]," she said. "I don't know how I can keep you," she paused, "safe. How I could do this, on my own, in any normal way."

She got out of the car and grabbed your bag, shoving it against your chest. "Camp is just up that hill there," she said, gesturing in the direction of the large tree you'd seen earlier. "They’ve got people up there waiting for you."

"Mom," you said. "Wait, I—I wanted to talk to you—"

She shook her head. "I can't come with you, sweetie." She smiled, the curve of her mouth falling just short of her eyes. "You just remember that I love you, okay?"

At that moment, you knew: she was going to leave you here.

“No,” you said, tears rolling down your face. “No, no—Mom. Mom, please.”

“Before you go,” she said, her voice tight and sharp, “I wanted to give you this.” She reached into the back seat and pulled out a jacket, worn leather with patched elbows. “It was mine in college,” she explained, not meeting your eyes. Like she was reading from a play or book, and you were the unfortunate audience. “I figure, it doesn’t fit me anymore.” 

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Happy birthday, baby.”

It was the first time you had ever felt like your mother loved you. You knew she liked you, sometimes. But you were never quite sure if she loved you until that moment. 

And then she got back into the car with one final, teary nod. 

And you never saw her again.

“Yeah,” you tell Luke, shrugging. “I think I’ve got a pretty good reason, though.” Your lips curve into a smile.

He laughs and tilts his head. It’s a habit of his; he’ll say something and twist his neck just a fraction, narrow his eyes. A nervous tic that not even years of training and fighting and killing could stamp out.

You used to think about kissing his neck when he did it, but now you’re not sure whether you would know the difference between kissing and ripping his throat out. 

“True,” Luke concedes. You laugh, too, unrestrained and loud. “Gods, your sense of humor is dark.”

“You laughed first,” you remind him. He grins.

The cupcake he offers you, despite its lumps and smears of frosting, is pretty good. You split it apart with careful fingers and hand half of it back to him.

“You’re celebrating with me,” you laugh, “so you get half. That’s the rule.”

Luke simply smiles at you and takes the crumbling cake from your hand. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, grinning back. “Damn right.”

Luke’s laugh rings out again, sharp and bright against the night sky. Firelight flickers across his face, painting him in brilliant streaks of orange and gold. 

“After tomorrow,” Luke murmurs, pulling his knees up to his chest, “we can do this whenever we want.” The wind ruffles his hair almost fondly, floppy brown curls stirring and settling back against his skull.

You raise an eyebrow. “This?”

He gestures in a wide arc. “Be here, like this. Just be people, instead of demigods or heroes or revolutionaries.” Luke’s voice picks up, conviction surging into his words. “I mean, seriously—when was the last time you thought you would ever have a normal life?”

You’d never understood the demigods who joined Luke’s cause without knowing him. The plan itself seemed crazy—the only way anyone would follow it was if they knew their leader could pull it off. 

You have to know Luke to know he was capable of that, you think.

Until now. Now, you see what you think everyone else sees—a real leader, a revolutionary. A force for change with a silver tongue.

He makes it all seem so possible. You almost think he might pull it off.

Luke looks over to you. “We’re going to change everything,” he says. 

Almost.

“We’re going to change the rules,” Luke said, spreading the map over an empty cot in his cabin. “If we want to win, we need to be thinking six steps ahead of the enemy.”

A few of the campers huddled around the makeshift table shuffled and coughed awkwardly. 

“Every strategy’s been done before,” a tall girl with bubblegum-pink hair and an eyebrow piercing shouted from the back of the group. “How are we going to out-war the god of war’s kids?” 

Murmurs rushed around the table, soft and susurrant. There’s no way we’re going anywhere here. We’ve gotten our asses beat six weeks in a row. What are we even doing?

Luke smiled. “Ares is the god of war,” he said, “not strategy.” He slung his arm around one of the campers next to him and inclined his head in the direction of the map.

Quietly, almost too quiet for you to hear, he murmured into the girl’s ear. “Don’t doubt yourself, Bethy,” he whispered.

You learned three things in the ten minutes that she spent explaining your team’s new strategy—

—one, your team was going to kick some major ass—

—two, your strategist’s name was Annabeth Chase, and she was the smartest eight-year-old you have ever met—

—and three, Luke was right.

Annabeth’s plan took the rules of Capture the Flag and threw them out the window. She split the team into four subgroups, each with a delegated leader. Luke nodded along as she talked, marking the map with a stubby pencil. 

When Annabeth’s eyes, dark and piercing, searched the crowd and landed on you, you felt your heart stop.

“You,” she said, “are you good with a sword?”

You raised your eyebrow, pointing to yourself—just to confirm this genius child was speaking to you—and Annabeth nodded. 

“I guess?” You said, shrugging. “I know some basic stuff, and I’m good at disarming.”

Annabeth’s face broke into a smile. “Work with Luke on the first wave of offense.” She gestured to the map. “You two will take points B and B-one,” she explained. “My group will take the A-points. You wait for our signal to move in.”

You met Luke’s eyes across the table. Hey, you mouthed. 

His eyes flicked up and down your form. Hey, he mouthed back. You ready to win?

You smiled and nodded.

Good, Luke said, all teeth. Let’s go.

He stood and grabbed his helmet. You did the same.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said as you followed Luke through the forest. “We, uh—we met when I first got here, like, a year ago.” I was sobbing my eyes out because my mother abandoned me, you didn’t add. It was kind of pathetic. I think I threw up from crying so hard.

You suddenly hoped Luke didn’t remember meeting you, actually. That would be less embarrassing.

He turned and caught your eye. “You live in the same cabin as me. ‘Course I know you.” 

Of course he remembers.

You laughed, flushing red. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

The silence was so thick, you could have cut it with the sleek bronze of your sword.

In the end, it was Luke who broke the silence. “You wanna play a game while we wait out here?”

You shrugged. “Sure,” you said. 

“Twenty questions,” Luke replied. “So we can learn enough about each other to actually work together.” He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Low-hanging fruit,” you said, your voice just barely taking on a teasing tone. “It’s green.” 

Luke laughed, loud and full and bright. “Apologies,” he said; mirth crept into his words, staining everything with a tinge of that laughter. “I’ll go for the more gut-wrenching, intimate questions next time.”

You flushed red again. Intimate questions. What the hell does he mean by that?

“My turn,” you said instead. “What do you want to be when you get older?”

“We’ll be heroes,” Luke whispers. “Real heroes. Not figureheads propped up by the gods.”

You wish you could believe him. He’s lying on the beach next to you, his head resting in the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Over the treetops, the stars are beginning to fade from the sky.

It’s almost time.

Your throat feels like someone has sanded it down to expose your vocal cords. This is a bad idea, you want to say. We shouldn’t do this. Tell me we can still not do this. 

“Wanna play twenty questions?” You say, crackling and hoarse.

Luke turns to look at you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

“My turn first,” you whisper. Luke nods.

You take a deep breath, in and out. “Are we going to die doing this?”

Luke inhales sharply. “Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Deliberately. “But we’ll do everything we can to make sure we don’t.”

“I got another question,” you say. Luke raises an eyebrow. His knuckles brush yours as you sit up.

“Are you scared?”

It’s your birthday. 

You think you’re going to die. 

Luke is kneeling over you, the palm of his hand pressed against the wet opening in your stomach where someone had caught you with a spear. The shaft of it is still sticking out of you, you think. You’re afraid to look down, afraid to see it. 

“No,” Luke gasps, “no, no, no.”

You watch as the gold fades from his eye, leaving behind the honey-dark brown you remember. His hands are slick with blood—most of it’s probably yours, it has to be yours. You’re bleeding out, after all. 

You tug on Luke’s sleeve weakly. “Hey,” you breathe. “Luke. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No,” he says. “You’re—you’re hurt.”

“I know,” you rasp. “I know it hurts. I’m the one—” 

You break off as a cough sticks in your throat. It feels wet. Oily. Desperate to get out. You taste the blood in the back of your throat before you can even take another breath.

“—I’m the one who’s feeling it,” you finish, your voice tilting up at the end. A joke. Gods, your sense of humor is dark.

Luke laughs weakly. “Don’t talk,” he says. “You’re gonna be just fine, [Y/N], just fine.”

He meets your eyes. You see him realize it in slow motion.

Tell him. Tell him now. He’s never going to know otherwise—he could die any minute—

“Luke,” you murmur. “Luke, did you know I loved you?”

He freezes. “What?”

You cough again. Blood spills over your lips. “I loved you,” you repeat. “Since we were campers. Had the…the biggest, stupidest crush on you.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “You—”

“You’re my best friend,” you continue. “Whatever feelings were there, you’re my best friend.”

Luke’s palm against your stomach is warm. It feels safe. It feels like sleeping side-by-side in the cabin, like shared meals and shared secrets. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Luke says, “why are you—why?”

You blink, just once, but it takes everything you have to open your eyes again after closing them. “Because I’m going to die,” you whisper. “And even if—even though I moved on, I wanted you to…to know.”

Luke bows over your body, pressing his forehead to yours. Tears slip from his cheeks and fall onto yours, driving little rivers through the blood smeared there.

He’s crying. Why is he—

“You idiot,” Luke says brokenly. “I loved you too. I loved you too.” He cradles your head in his lap, brushing your hair away from your face. “[Y/N], I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes slip shut.

I loved you too, Luke’s voice echoes. I loved you too.

#— ash's writing #pjo x reader #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan x you #reader insert #y/n #pjo imagine #ok now we get into the warning tags #graphic depictions of injury #major character death #major character injury #reader death #alcohol mention #doomed by the narrative #genuinely im so sorry i really ran wild with this one good god #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan fanfic #— ash’s answering!

[codiciarr]

your voice was more precious to me than anything in the world

#tw blood #major blood warning #!! #hey guys sooooooo. there was this trend on tiktok right abt liverleaf #its my favorite movie #duality duo #my art #codi art #lifesteal #lifesteal fanart #lifesteal smp #mcyt #mapicc #roshambo #roshambogames #roshambogames fanart #roshambo fanart #mapicc fanart

[mipexch]

heed heaven’s call, one way or another

#ultrakill #the ferryman #ultrakill ferryman #gore #body horror #ferrymen are so fucked up love that for them #ah yes i need to get into heaven. tears my flesh off and fights another guy to the death for a piece of cloth that makes me blue #context for this is smth hakita mentioned on discord awhile back about how the ferrymen differenciate themselves from husks by removing- #-their flesh. also to appear close to angels #maybe i need to add more warnings i do NOT want this to show up on someones feed as a complete gorey jumpscare #gore is Not my strong suit but im afriad. u get it #major gore cw #gen art

[p1nkcanoe]

!! major flash warning, flashing lights

— from maedenart on twitter

#tw flashing lights #major flash warning #the band ghost #ghost band #ghost #ghost bc #nameless ghouls #rain ghoul #red #gifs

[nero-neptune]

“Roy was the engineer, and anything related to engineering, in any specialism, would have to pass through his hands. This included assembling the plane’s radio, just like he’d fixed the small battery-operated Spika radio and made it work.

“Adolfo sat down beside him. He explained to Roy that it was not a matter of expertise in electronics but one of ignorance, and pointed out that Roy was the least ignorant of everybody in that department. Roy argued that he had never seen an airplane radio in his life, not even in a book. Adolfo put his hand over Roy’s. ‘I know that, Roy. We all know that. I only wanted to tell you that you were the best one at handling the wires and the terminals, that’s all. But right now that’s a lot, it makes a huge difference … you are the engineer.’

“Roy, almost breathless, added something that his older friend already knew: ‘I am barely in my first year in Engineering, I’m only twenty years old, and the only time I’ve ever been remotely close to anything like this was when I helped instal a damn audio system for my cousins.’

“‘And you fixed the Spika radio,’ Adolfo responded, as if it were a thermonuclear station and not a basic portable radio the size of a pack of cigarettes. Before Adolfo even said the next sentence he knew clearly that it was as painful for him to say as it was for his friend to hear it. ‘Roy, the group needs your abilities. All we’re asking is that you try.’ ”

– “Is Anybody Listening?” from Society of the Snow: The Definitive Account of the World’s Greatest Survival Story by Pablo Vierci

LA SOCIEDAD DE LA NIEVE | SOCIETY OF THE SNOW (2023) dir. J. A. Bayona

#society of the snow #la sociedad de la nieve #moviegifs #filmgifs #doyouevenfilm #fyeahmovies #userconstance #userrobin #usermarina #userbbelcher #chewieblog #dasakuryo #henricavyll #tuserjyn #dailyflicks #dailyworldcinema #perioddramaedit #userfilm #userstream #myedit #i know i know it's a lot of text i KNOW. it's just important to me #beyond being one more aspect of the story that's shown on screen but further expanded upon in the book- #it spoke to me A Lot bc it's yet another reminder of how 'in their 20s' everyone is here #roy harley's the engineer. and whenever that's mentioned the book goes: #'truly cannot emphasize enough how much he/i hated Every Single Second of being the damned engineer' #like just think about whatever your college/uni major was. and imagine-without warning-you're now the default expert in your field #barely a year's-worth of learning in your back pocket. but people are depending on you! you literally have no room to say 'no' #he did eventually become an industrial engineer. it all worked out. but the stress?? the anxiety??? (all the while missing his best friends #like what a way to learn on the job :/

[p4nishers]

starting a support group for everyone who felt personally victimized by tiny nobby nobbs in night watch

#HIS DAD USED TO BREAK HIS AMRS?? KEEL GAVE HIM A SPOON THIRTY YEARS AGO AND HE STILL TALKS ABOUT IT!! HE RISKED HIS LIFE TO WARN VIMES OF #HIS MURDER!! HIS DAD WAS ONCE SOBER FOR TWO WHOLE DAYS AND CARVED HIM A SOLDIER TOY!!! HE CRIED WHEN THE MAJOR CALLED HIM A TRAITOR TO ANKH #MORPORK BC HE IS A MORPORKIAN BOY GODDAMNIT!!! HE CARVED HIMSELF HIS OWN BADGE FROM SOAP!! HE!!!!!!!!!!!!???!!!!!!! #i need to be institutionalized #nobby nobbs #gnu terry pratchett #discworld #night watch #HE WANTS TO BE A SOLDIER IF HE SURVIVES!!!!! IF!!!! IF?!!!?????! IF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #HES LIKE FUCKING 8 YEARS OLD WHAT THE FUCK

[ofmermaidstories]

You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.

‼️📍 content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. there’s also some light smut and implied underage sex.

Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowl—you clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire world—the entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.

Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.

The first time it happens she’s still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other her—shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.

You make a tiny noise—fear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled up—and then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, “Are you okay, Baby?”

The Other Rinchan’s mouth stretches open further, like it recognises her—like it’s trying to say something back and you—

You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, “What? What? What is it? What’s wrong?” her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.

She’s bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.

You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesn’t save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happens—a response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you can’t hear, their fear—your fear—condemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and can’t frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O—her face covered in blood.

Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.

The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes back—cannot come back, no matter how much you love her.

Others do, though.

It’s a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that it’s specific to people you either know or will come to know—people you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen it’s your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. You’d been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.

You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeks—it ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.

You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head could’ve been a fall, or some kind of rock—an accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchan—with Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.

“You’re a stupid piss-baby!” He’d shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat you—and this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. “Freak!” he’d hiss. “Piss-baby! Get lost!”

He’d run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (“Piss Baby wants me dead!”)—and you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.

It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where he’d knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.

(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.

Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)

You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki it’s Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. She’ll be in hospital—someone will be with her. It won’t be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. It’ll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesn’t suit you, but it’ll better than some of the lonely things you’ve seen, you live with.

(But it’s not better at all. Hiroe’s son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that you’re already dressing her altar, but her son is never there—and she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)

You’re cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.

Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet dead—floating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isn’t there.

You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.

“Don’t,” you say to this corpse of a boy you haven’t met, yet. “Don’t—don’t you dare do this to me.”

He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You don’t even know him. You don’t even know him.

He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.

By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless stray—keeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.

And then he walks into class that first day, and you are—you are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.

“Hey,” he says after class, too interested and too friendly. “You look a little frightened—you good?”

Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, “I’m fine,” which proves to be mistake.

His eyes—big and blue—brighten at the challenge, and he grins.

“Fujita Kouki,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, Kouki’s—Fujita’s—eyes are warm, not the milky colour you’ve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.

Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almost—almost—chases the ghosts away.

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

Best friend is not the right term; it’s not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesn’t capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when he’s late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because he’s bored. But—

He’s easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. He’s friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants to—he wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki you’re not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laugh—all the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, now—and you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. He’s the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. He’s the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of him—suspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have him—Kouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.

“My dad’s finally free,” he tells you one night. You’re sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chews—Kouki (living) before you, lingering close.

“Mmph?” You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.

Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. He’d been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescent—she laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted it—you wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.

But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichan’s pretty face—shocked. Kouki’s red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he’d said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I just—I don’t want that.”

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

“The old man’s finally got that time off he wanted,” Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forward—bracketing you, where you sit. “He wants to go fishing.”

“Oh,” you say, a little uselessly. Kouki’s hands are either side of you, distracting—the space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.

You still. He’s always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his face—normally so open, light—is afraid.

“You never tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasn’t true—you told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.

Kouki’s eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.

It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between you—your fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.

“You smell like those milkchews,” he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches them—

—and you don’t know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.

He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.

“You’re dumb,” he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. “And I’m gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything you’re thinking, forever. Until you’re sick of me.”

Your heart lurches. Forever.

“I could never be sick of you,” you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.

Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.

“I mean it,” he says, quiet. Promising. “You’re gonna have to chase me off.”

You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.

But there’s a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is there—mouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.

(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat he’s rented, for his fishing trip. The man’s never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowed—but his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the back of your neck, when you’re curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t worry.”

He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself he’s right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.

He’s gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was right—he was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasn’t, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.

You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but you—

You stand there and you stare at Kouki’s portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.

Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping away—taking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)

The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrots—anything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you don’t form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.

Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is it’s not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.

Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say something—only to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.

The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope that’s not there and you—you thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.

He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, “You worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyone—” he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.

(he doesn’t come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)

Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.

You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.

You’re not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then he’s there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting something—

And then there’s a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

He doesn’t return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.

All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been an—anomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that that’s what Kouki’s ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And you’d only grown more sure of it when it didn’t repeat—

Until now.

You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldn’t go through it again, you wouldn’t—

You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. Not again. Not ever again.

(But your heart’s already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the light—like winter sun.

When your hiccups calm, you look up—and he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.

When you open them, he’s gone.

“Please,” you whisper to your empty apartment. “Please don’t do this to me.”

But it’s only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)

Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.

It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous one—and how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.

A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe you’re safe; and then you’re not.

“If everyone can line up, then that’ll make everything go smoother,” your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruck—overseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.

Your boss calls your name—and when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.

“Can you run and grab my laptop case for me?” he asks, already half out the door. “You’re closer, and I have a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your desk—as you’re meant to—and dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is empty—your boss’s megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.

You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

You freeze. There’s an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Hero—dressed in black, with bright orange details.

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldn’t be able to see—the glass was tinted—but his face is suspicious and you clutch your boss’s case to you tighter, heart thumping.

Don’t give him a reason to single you out, you think desperately—you hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairs—only to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.

It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.

“The hell?” He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you evacuate with the others?”

You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of you—it doesn’t compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. He’s more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.

Something his eyes—ink red under his mask—don’t miss, narrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. “I had to grab something.”

“You ain’t meant to take anything,” he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nod—his jaw tightening in response.

You’d rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair that’d been playing over and over in front of you.

Pro Hero Dynamight—Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight—scowls at you, jerking behind him. “The extra with the megaphone is doin’ roll call.”

He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesn’t thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise you’ve noticed that—

You hold your boss’s laptop closer. “Okay,” you say, meaninglessly.

Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.

“Wait,” he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenades—you mutter a thank-you and don��t look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.

(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire it’s Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly at—

You. Standing at the back.

His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like you’re speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)

It’s just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

Perhaps it’s your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe it’s one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe it’s just plain old bad luck—but whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.

He’s—there, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary you’d only just missed. He’s—crouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. He’s—walking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the café window a glance.

He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.

It’s worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.

Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attention—or so you’d thought.

You’re walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. You’d seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shouting—his disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, you’d bought a supermarket bento for dinner—some nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.

You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speed—

Stopped by a black boot, it’s orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bag—drifting like a bride’s veil, between you.

The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. “Weak crap.”

In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark void—until he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.

“You afraid of me, or somethin’?” He asks, rough. His face is pinched—it makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of light—and then Japan’s dynamite, Japan’s explosive anger, would be gone forever.

And here you were—making him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.

“No,” you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He squints at you, disbelieving.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Then why do you keep runnin’ away like you’ve shit yourself?”

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

“I do not,” you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.

Dynamight grunts in dismissal. “Yeah you do. Every time I’m walkin’ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little place—you’re there, turning tail. If you ain’t on laxatives and you ain’t afraid, then what is it?”

“I’m prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,” you tell him, stoutly. “And you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?”

His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.

“‘M on patrol,” he tells you. “It’s my job on patrol to notice weirdoes—and you’ve been the weirdest.”

“Congratulations!” you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. It’s already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.

He’s so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeks—maybe months, if he was lucky—he’d be gone, just like that.

“Now what?” You ask him, ask yourself. “What happens now?”

Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.

“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep being weird?”

You almost laugh. You don’t, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew when—weird was probably the least you could be.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The Pro-Hero shrugs again. “Then I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.”

He’s not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and you—

You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeen—but has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.

“Okay,” you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever they’re gathered. “I surrender.”

Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicion—waiting, instead.

A new pattern starts.

He walks past the coffee shop when you’re there and squints at you—acknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.

You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees you—bright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your face—and grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.

“Your hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,” he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.

“I like your hat!” One girl says, brightly. She’s wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.

“Thanks,” you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.

“I gotta get grandma home,” he tells everyone, as the group groans. “S’gotta have that nanna nap.”

You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You don’t fight it—and when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.

“You hungry?” He asks you, one evening. You’d been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.

The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.

“Yeah,” you answer him, eventually. “I’m starving.”

He nods, resolutely not looking at you—though when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.

“Denimhead introduced me to a place near here,” he says, gruffly. “They’re decent, ain’t wankers. And they’re cheap. Private.”

He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.

“I’d like that,” you say instead, softer. “I’d like to go.”

He doesn’t risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are low—Dynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.

“They gotta menu,” he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. “Otherwise if ya trust me I can—I can suggest shit.”

His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was so—here. Alive. With every tiny movement—the draw back of his elbow, the flex of his hand—you feel it, too aware.

“I trust you,” you tell him.

He grins—sudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.

(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. There’s toasted baguette—slathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. There’s steak cut like it’s been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, who’s nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.

He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each other—

But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruit—and he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)

Days. Weeks. Months.

You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was useless—

He doesn’t poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.

“Tell ‘em to either deal with it or shut up,” he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He goes away on a mission across the country—after a villain the news was calling Hazard. He’d been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.

(When he comes back it’s an overcast day; finally dry. He’s waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.

“You good?” He asks.

“Better now that you’re back,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phone—watching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. There’d been nothing; no arrests, no collision.

But your Pro-Hero’s face softens, just slight, and you realise that he’d read something else in it when he says, low, “Yeah. I get it.”

Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.

He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.

“Yeah,” he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)

Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss it’s at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.

“You’re always tryna—dart away,” he says suddenly, still sitting.

You startle at the look on his face—serious, soft mouth trying not to pout.

“I just—I just want to help with the dishes,” you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands it’s carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.

“I can’t get a read on you,” he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. “Can’t—guess at whatever’s goin’ on in that squirrelly head of yours.”

You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.

“There’s nothing,” you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a man—real, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.

“Like hell there is,” he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. “Whatever you’ve got spinnin’ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ain’t—”

He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you can’t breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.

“—I ain’t gonna let you disappear,” he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. “Hah—”

You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarl—or smile?—against you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.

The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeper—you gasp again, and again, until you’re panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.

(You are unravelled, on the floor—your clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift away—you want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.

He lifts himself to meet you for a kiss—his mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.

His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting him—coffee, sex, you—as hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.

Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like you’re trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.

You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.

Days. Weeks. When you come it’s sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.

There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.

He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.

“Wasn’t too shit,” he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)

Days, weeks. Days.

Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the moments—let yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when he’s brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.

“The others wanna meet ya,” he says one night, grumpily. “Said something about a lunch—I told ‘em s’up to you.”

At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what you’d see, around them, the country’s frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worse—

But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realise—he wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.

Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.

“Okay,” you say. “I’d—I’d like that. Let’s do that.”

When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only him—ignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.

Days. Day. It’s a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruit—you wanted a tray of them, to take.

The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.

“RUN!” Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. It’s the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.

You’re almost torn away from the store—the girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieks—trapped behind the counter.

“Wait!” You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until there’s a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but there’s a ominous rattling above you and you scream, “Come on!” at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.

She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, “We have to go! Now!”

You’re almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone else’s desperation—but then she’s scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.

You’re separated in the push—there’s more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.

Outside there’s a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.

The explosion is small. It doesn’t feel like it—everyone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to move—

You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight it’s almost a relief—until you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.

Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-faced—looking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Just put your hands up,” one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. “And surrender. There’s no need for hostages.”

Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.

Day. Moments.

Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to see—

But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.

You blink away your tears, and he’s there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meet—and he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulder—

And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.

And you are gone.

#‼️📍 content warnings at the beginning of the post 📍‼️ #tw: major character death #tw: death #tw: bludgeoning #tw: wasp stings #tw: drowning #tw: suicide #tw: grief/mourning #tw: smut #bakugou x reader #prompts and drabbles and other things #merms apology tour

[hom3landr]

"just lie to me, okay? just this once."

Necessary Lies

CW - Major Character Death, descriptions of gore and sickness, ANGST ANGST ANGST

Homelander’s intentions had been pure when he arranged to dose you with Compound V. He’s reminded by a friend that’s how the road to hell is paved

You aren’t getting better.

Homelander’s stomach turns.

You aren’t getting better.

He’d done everything right. The whole process was done under the supervision of all of Vought’s best doctors and scientists. Even as you screamed and begged, he’d been confident that any complications could be swiftly dealt with. Sure, you’d been an adult when the V had been introduced into your system but you are strong. You have to be. You have to.

He watches you in your room. It doesn’t seem right for you to be surrounded by so much blank white. You are color and light but even you can’t withstand the way the awful room dims your soul. Maybe if you could see the sun you’d get better. But the doctors insist you are too fragile to handle any environment except the sterile one you are contained in.

He bites his lip anxiously as you continue to hack up blood, the bright crimson automatically drawing the eye. His instincts tell him to scan you, to watch as the V twists your DNA and transforms you into something greater.

I told you not to get your hopes up. You tend to have a less than stellar track record when it comes to mud people.

He shakes his head and tries to ignore the little voice in his ear. He’s wrong this time. It’s a hiccup that’s all. You’re strong. You are.

The voice is blocked out but not by his own efforts. A horrible cry leaves your lips as your bones crack and shift under your skin. More red spews on the floor. He winces at the wet splat as a chunk of something hits the floor.

That was juicy. Wanna bet that was a lung?

Homelander tastes iron as he splits his own lip. It feels like it’s your blood he’s tasting. It’s your blood he’s spilt.

That one was a little mean, I admit. But buck up Bucko, this is what you signed up for. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.

He’s done this before. Why the fuck were you the one with complications?

“There’s a good reason Vought doesn’t do it.”

That’s what he told Madelyn that fateful night.

He’d killed her too

He steps to the side as a squad of sour smelling scientists rush in to stabilize you. But what can they do? What can they do now that the only outcome is for the poison to run its course? He vividly fantasizes about popping each one’s head like a ripe melon as punishment for not fixing this. It doesn’t make him feel better.

Please

He begs the voice in his head.

Just lie to me, okay? Just this once.

The once dependable steady rhythm of your heartbeat is dangerously erratic.

You smell like death.

Please!

He worries the cut on his lip with his tongue. It feels strange to have a wound. The scientists flutter around you nervously. They know you’re a lost cause but Homelander’s icy gaze compels them to at least pretend to be helpful. Their terror burns his nose. He decides to make their demise slow.

No can do Buddy, you know that’s not what I’m here for. I’m the only one who’ll never lie to you.

Your heartbeat grows fainter. Your breaths rattle.

One of the scientists pisses himself.

Please…

You turn your head and despite your eyes meeting his, he knows you can’t see him. You wouldn’t be able to even without the wall in the way. He doesn’t think you can see much of anything anymore.

I told you so. Better go in and say your goodbyes.

I hate you

Aw buddy, I’m the only thing you have left.

Your heart stops and a noise all too terribly familiar leaves your throat. The last noise you’ll ever make. A wail just as wretched leaves his lips.

He didn’t even say goodbye. He let you die in that awful room alone. He wasn’t even holding your hand. You were alone like he was alone all those many years ago. Being poked at like he was.

He vomits bile onto the floor.

You’re gonna need me more than ever now. Better get used to it.

#homelander #homelander x reader #x reader #major character death #Please read the warnings this is sad as fuck #the angstiest thing I’ve ever written #I’m so sorry anon #i went nuclear #angst #mirrorlander #I’m finally in a place where I can start working through prompts

[aziraphales-library]

Hi Everyone! Thank you all for all your work with this blog. I've been looking for some nsfw fics where Crowley learns that sex doesn't have to hurt!

Any recommendations?

Hello! Here are some fics where Crowley has had painful/bad sexual experiences and Aziraphale shows him how much better it can be. Mind the warnings on a lot of these, though!...

held and healing by blackeyedblonde (E)

“Do you need anything?” Aziraphale asks softly, only for the second time today. This is their dance, their routine, their tried and true merry-go-round of give and take. “Yeah,” Crowley grits out this time, sounding terribly raw when he does. “You.” (Crowley hurts, sometimes; Aziraphale wants to fix it, always.)

Unhidden by justsimplymeagain (NR)

There’s something to be said about letting barriers drop and be seen by someone you love and desire most.

A New Breadth of Things by artenon (E)

“Just part of the job description,” Crowley said, aiming for casual. “Never sought it out for pleasure.” Hadn’t thought he could find pleasure in it, not with all his other experiences with it. “I know it can be good,” he said. “I want to try and make it good, and you’re the only one I want to do it with.” -- Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley have ever had sex that they've wanted and enjoyed. But they know that it can be good, and they want very much to make it good for one another.

May I Hold Your Hand? by Davechicken (E)

Crowley does not like watching the lovey dovey bits of movies. Aziraphale finds out why. Aziraphale is not happy. Crowley is pleasantly surprised by how his angel responds.

What Is Owed, and What Is Given by KitCat_Italica (E)

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Really looked at him. He was asking Aziraphale to help him try something new, something that might scare him no matter how much he wanted it. But even with that vulnerability, he was trusting Aziraphale with this. Trusting Aziraphale to catch him if he fell.

what i call life (what would you do?) by Vagabond (E)

Crowley lives a life of indentured servitude to Lucifer, a man who runs an escort and companion service. His life is one client after another, until a man named Aziraphale Fell hires him to be a companion at a sibling's wedding. Crowley had no idea that this chance encounter would put him on a path to freedom, and, just maybe, to finding love.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #adult omens #major archive warning #non con #mod d

[mistykaru]

i got stuff from the csp asset store and i wanted to play with it so this is a mess but i did have fun and i kinda dig the vibes

#andreil #aftg #the foxhole court #all for the game #i just thought the lil computer window borders were so cute #also okay listen my vision: #lmao i just wrote college au and completely forgot the canon story is in college pls #but like alt where neil does the photos bc he gets a camera #art majors???? #idk what's going on my vision is gone i am blind now #it was like a we pass each other on campus and a double take with warning signs is happening #i just thought the warning signs looked kinda cool #i also wanted the wavey thing to be a heartbeat w a skippy in it but i didnt know how to make it look nice it wasn't cooperating #and honestly i was getting tired of trying to figure out what should go in the space #i am not an aesthetic person idk how people do the fancy lil edits all the time #i draw i dont do graphic design i dont have the frog within necessary #myart #anyway im running away now bc idk how i feel about this bye

[daily-isat]

day 3! line up of the Main Guys…. colors version uder the cut ^_<

mira being purple and pink is very special to me, ok. isa being tones of pink is very dear to me, ok… and odile and bonnie having opposite palettes is important to me, ok……?

#isat #in stars and time #isat siffrin #isat bonnie #isat mirabelle #isat isabeau #isat odile #isat loop #BEYOND THIS TAG IS A MAJOR SPOILY FOR THE GAME OK #im warning u now…. DONT READ THE NEXT TAGIF U HAVENT FINISHED THE GAME!!!! #so: loops white is the exact same as the sif clothes white. #i think i maybe made it a bit brighter #but #it is the same slightly blue offwhite shade. Teehee. Because well you see #They are connected……. #^_< #i was gonna make it sifs hair white but thats too eggshelly to feel Unnatural in the way loop is. so its the clothes one instead. which i #think still works bc the cloak is a massive signifier of their Country which is so important of a tie for them #so! yay:3 #day 3

[anglerflsh]

I'm sorry you have been what in the woods.

oh look who's interested in my getting shot lore now. Should have been there when it happened sorry

#[.asks] #anonymous #it wasn't anything major (not a real shooting bullet) I just like to say it like that because it makes it sound worse #my father and I were hiking in a place where some people were doing some sort of hunting training camp or whathave you #in hindsight we definitely should have not been there but my dad ignores warning sings constantly when in the woods #ironic that my father didn't get shot since he was the bigger target but maybe they mistook me for a fox or something #it's the only stiches I ever had to get! and the wound healed bad so I hate wearing canotte now. </3

[boom33713]

seasons 2 and 3!!! (and one from the intro bc i realized i didnt make one for it yet. oops)

less transformations this time, more other cool effects. i've noticed you usually only see the light effects when they're not in view, which was more rare in these seasons.

and a bonus :]

#this is like a stim board to me. i could look at these for ages #so going off the way my notifs had quite a lot of activity with relatively quick speed ig the wk fandom is certainly out there #this one is for yall as much as it is for me. cheers #non sequitur but watching the flying fish ep was crazy #the whole ep was just STEM major on STEM major violence #it was hilarious #wild kratts #chris kratt #martin kratt #gif #gif warning #flashing gif #flashing cw