#CW: murder

[phyrestartr]

Heyyy I'm not sure if you take requests but I have an idea-

Reincarnated! Husband sukuna x Dead spouse (husband) Male Reader: this one is kind of like sukuna fucks up a lot, I think this can work out as an omegaverse? He cheats, fucks around, or doesn't even give af about m reader who is his fated pair, but then m! reader died and since they were mated he's like “shit I can't live without him” so he tries to be good to him the next life and they have happy family the end.

Replay (This Time I'll Get It Right) | Sukuna x Male!Reader (Part 1 of 2)

W/C: 1.6k #alpha!sukuna, omega!reader, mentions of suicide, mentions of murder, ABO dynamics, mentions of stalking, mentions of toxic exes, sukuna sucks, sukuna sucks less eventually, reincarnation, next lives, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, toxic relationships, infidelity/cheating

NOTE: Thank you for your patience!! It's still not quite done, but I wanted to post the first part up while i think of the rest of the story (got a vague idea of how it'll go, so should come out soon). Ty for the req!

tags: @kamote-kuneho @prettorett @memedealer-exe @tr4nniez @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork @memedealer-exe @silvern1006

♪ Here With Me - d4vd

♪ Watch the sunrise along the coast

As we’re both getting old ♪

Sukuna puffed on a cigarette, staring out at the city lights. You always liked coming here, to this little cliff hanging above the city–especially when you were stuck on lyrics or tabs of whatever song you were working on. This hillside spot was cheesy and stupid, but you loved the way it felt like an old-school chick flick when you drove up here in your beater.

In this spot, Sukuna realized you had an old soul, one that basked in the simple, mundane things like stargazing and city-watching. It was a step away from feeding pigeons in the park, your producer decided. The way that made you laugh still sent his heart on a wild chase. That, too, was the first moment he realized he wanted you more than just a collaborator. 

And, maybe, if he had pushed aside the partying, the drugs, the women, he might’ve bothered checking his phone. He might’ve been able to apologize for wrongs done and words said, to get back on the right track. He might've not found out about you on the news. Maybe he could have given you everything you wanted–

But he couldn’t. Not anymore. 

♪ I can’t describe what I’m feeling

And all I know is we’re going home ♪

Even after locking you down and starting on that stupid journey to start a family, his spirit still yearned to wander free. 

So it did. 

Primal wants controlled him. He allowed them to steer him away from the safety of your touch and into the gnashing jaws of excitement, of danger. All because the two of you were starting to make it–you were starting to leave your mark on this world, and Sukuna let the fame and greed get to him. 

But how could he not jump at the chance to fuck the famous and infamous? How could he stay faithful to just you, a smalltown boy, when big city celebrities reached out to him, pulling him into big deals and bigger beds? How could he–

His phone blitzed to life again, ringing in the hollow quiet of a too-expensive car. The call went to voicemail, leaving him in the pits of Tartarus again, drowning in the frigid rain beating against his car windows like a million bullets trying to seek the death penalty.

Did angels do that? Take revenge for their own kind? He’d understand it. Jin, an angel in his own right, exiled his Luciferian twin from the celestial plane, barring him from what was left of that tiny spark of love and hope he called “family.” 

♪ So please don’t let me go, oh

Don’t let me go ♪

His phone rang again. He remembered picking it up once upon a time, listening to your shaky voice as you told him the worst and best news he’d ever heard in his entire existence: “I’m pregnant.” 

Sukuna didn’t know what true fear and excitement were until that moment. You laughed through waterworks, lifted by Sukuna’s uncontrolled motor-mouthing and celebrating as he hooted and hollered on the other line. The women your husband was with gave him weird looks, but he didn’t care–you were pregnant. You were going to–

You were going to have his kid. His pup. A shared little joy, a spark of hope for the future. And then–then someone took that away. 

The sorry waste of life, the obsessive ex you vehemently feared, left behind a note for whomever found the tragedy: “I'll take care of them from now on.”

Sukuna knew there had to be more to it, there had to be more of an explanation, but the media wasn't interested; they only wanted to use and abuse your name and face for articles and news reports, not to reminisce on you nor the woe of a murder-suicide.

How come no one cared? Why did no one fucking care?

♪ Save your tears, it’ll be okay

All I know is you’re here with me ♪

He snapped. Sukuna kicked the dashboard. His boot cracked against the console again and again and again until your siren song died in a quick fit of static. He crashed his heel into the broken screen a dozen more times, each impact punching shout after shout out of his tight throat as the weight of the fucking sky collapsed on him. He wasn’t Atlas. He couldn’t hold it up. He never could, not by himself.

Sukuna heaved in breaths. His stomach swirled and churned with nausea. He held his head and leaned back, screaming into the thunder that shook the world with a vital roar, hiding heartbroken howls.

Why? Why? Why? 

“Deep breaths, Sukuna,” your voice cooed. It came from the darkness, from the forgotten corners of his mind. Why were–ah, right. He’d been here before, overcome with agony and grief. Unable to breathe, unable to cope, unable to exist.  

He followed your instructions. 

“In. Out. In. Out.”

In. Out. In. Out.

The phone rang again. Sukuna answered. He hoped whoever it was would tell him this was all just a bad joke. A bad dream. It wasn’t real. 

“Finally,” Wasuke sighed on the other end of the line. “Kid, where the fuck are you?”

Sukuna stared up at the roof of the car. Words smeared and oozed like molasses in his mind. He couldn’t understand the words he knew he could understand. 

“Sukuna.” 

“What the fuck do I do?” Sukuna asked. His voice quivered. Chipped and cracked.

His father fell quiet. But he was wise. So fucking wise and so good at everything that came with life and death, morality and love. 

“Become a better man,” he said, like it was so simple. 

Sukuna scoffed. “H-How the fuck–”

“Quiet, kid.” Wasuke sighed. “That boy loved you. He had faith in you as a partner and a father. Remember that. Honour that, and become the man he knew you could be.”

Sukuna didn’t know his heart could break more, but it did. 

He sobbed. To his father, to himself, to you, to that unborn joy, to whatever fuckhead created life and love in the first place. He cried for forgiveness, for a second shot. 

“I’ll try,” Sukuna bit out. “I’ll try.” 

–

♪ I wish I could live through every memory again

Just one more time before we float off in the wind ♪

Sukuna woke up to that song. It was the same one that played in his nightmares, the same one that robbed him of sleep until he lost his mind and–and–

“What the fuck happened?” Sukuna croaked to whatever singing nymph fluttered around him. 

The damn song stopped, leaving Sukuna in just a second of tumultuous silence. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

The rhythmic chirping of some machine–a heart monitor, maybe? A metronome?--kicked up into double time, jamming an ice pick into his skull further and further with every hellish second that passed by. He could almost hear the radio static, the warp of a ballad calling to him. And it wouldn't stop. It wouldn't stop. Why wouldn't it stop? Why? Why? Why?

“Hey,” your voice cooed. Your hand rested atop of Sukuna's and squeezed. “Can you hear me?” 

Sukuna cracked a tired eye open to look up at you; you were perfect. God-given. A blessing he needed to see right now with your gentle eyes and kind smile, the gentle scent of lavender and vanilla cutting through the disgusting sterility of the room. 

“Can hear you,” Sukuna rasped. His hand tried to turn to hold yours, and you helped by slipping your palm into his. His heart rate slowed with the rhythm of the machine. 

You nodded and covered your clasped hands with your other one. “Good. You probably don't remember, but you were in an accident. A car side-swiped you when you were on your motorcycle.”

“No shit.” 

“Yes shit. But you're alright. Would recommend wearing a helmet from now on.” You pat his hand before slipping both of yours free. “I'll call the doctor and your family. They'll be glad to know you're awake, Itadori-san.” 

He wanted to ask you to stay. He didn't want you to go, not right then, maybe not at all. 

But you flashed him another comforting smile and slipped out of the room before he could object.

–

His father came by. Jin and his son, too. Uraume and Yorozu scolded him for not wearing a helmet. The ragtag group of hooligans he unfortunately associated with (just for the sake of going to their fancy-ass parties, he reasoned) came and went, too; Gojo gave him headaches, Getou made it worse, Ieiri wasn’t so bad.

Then there was you. You were always humming some sort of tune, whether it be the song from his nightmares or something he'd never heard before. Sukuna liked it, the sound of your voice, but you'd always clam up the second you realized someone might hear. 

It led him to pretend to be asleep far too many times during his recovery. Your songs eased his wildfire spirit, let it simmer down and curl up comfortably in a ring of stones to keep those near safe and warm without the fear of being burned alive. Hell, they could probably even make some s’mores if they wanted. 

Eventually, though, Sukuna wanted to know more. And what better person to ask than the burgeoning med student herself?

“Oh, [Name]?” Ieiri asked, sitting beside Sukuna’s bed and looking over the machines connected to Sukuna with rapt attention. “He’s a new-ish nurse from what I get. Pretty cute, huh? Apparently passed his exams no problem and–” 

Sukuna rolled his eyes. “If you don’t know relevant shit then just–”

“He’s single. Omega. Likes men. Kinda older than us. Gojo and Getou got rejected already.” 

That shut Sukuna up. 

[coockie8]

"I'm not spoon-feeding morals you should 100% already have established if you're over the age of 5 to you." LOUDER FOR THE IDIOTS IT THE BACK 📢📢📢📢

Look, if you have cognitive disabilities or whatever that make you incapable of distinguishing fiction from reality, then that sucks, and I truly do feel for you.

But at the same time if you're over the age of like 12 and still need a book to tell you rape and murder are bad, then maybe you just shouldn't be reading books that are about rape and murder ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯

Like I'm sorry, but if you know you have a tendency to act out what you read, then you should know better than to read morally grey books that don't word-for-word tell you that the actions taken by the morally grey characters within are bad and you shouldn't emulated them. Your mental illness does not absolve you of the responsibility of your actions, actually. I know, shocking.

Unfortunately this will limit you to media designed for children, because media designed for adults is going to go in assuming you already know not to act out bad things that you read.

[thedarkestrivernymph]

Burn

Yandere!Husband x gn!Reader

warnings: abuse, mentions of childhood trauma, mentions of death, manipulative tendencies, gaslighting, murder, gore

©Copyright -2024-thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

It burns, so agonizingly much, that uncertainty about this whole ordeal crept up your spine and settled in your chest.

Was this the right thing to do? To flee? It echoed in the emptiness that took over your head. It was perplexing and uncomfortable. You shouldn't feel empathy for him. He was crazy, deranged! Gone, a maniac, a bastard—

But maybe he was innocent and you were running away from the ghosts hunting you.

He was all that was left of your family. You didn't want to do this, you wanted him with you, loving and sweet, but it seemed that fate had different plans for the two of you. It seems that fate didn't favour you.

He had wormed himself into your life—then into your sacred family bonds, destroying what was already fragile. The mask he wore was that of a kindred spirit that sought for love, yet you never knew better than to believe the artificially crafted facade.

Prior he was an orphan, abandoned by his mother at six, which admittedly tugged at your heartstrings, even more so after learning the horrible foster parents, which was followed by the straight up ignorant adoptive family that took him in only for prestige matters.

So it wasn't that you didn't understand his desire for family, and you were even happy for him! Glad he found love in yours, yet all your hopeful dreams of finally peace settling in had vanished the moment the first of your relatives cut you off. Then a second followed, a third, a fourth until even your mom shunned you, refusing to see you any longer. They absolutely adored your husband but hated your guts.

However he didn't seem to hold the same adoration for them, no, he didn't even possess an ounce of sympathy with them as he watched them turn to ashes Infront of his very own eyes, laughing, like the maniac he was.

“Love!” he would jump up and down you remembered, seemingly over the moon by your dad praising him or your sister gifting him something meaningless as a cookie.

After he had burned down everything holy to you, he had just slipped back into your shared bed, stinking horribly of that kind of smell that reached your nose every time you left your omelette too long on the stove.

You hadn't understood then, but you did now, that that smell was foreshadowing to the petrifying news that had reached you the next day.

Everything spiralled out of your control after that day. You were completely scattered, forgetful, permanently teary-eyed, clumsy and visibly distraught.

So it started with your inability to hold up your job, which made him offer you to stay at home, while he financed you both. He was so devilishly sweet, messaging your shoulders when you were completely stiff, guiding you through breakdowns, cooking for you, feeding you. You hadn't know how you got so lucky with him.

However things became odd quickly, your friends seemed to disappear one by one, their numbers blocked, deleted or erased from existence. You were unbelievably mad, was this because of your new miserable state—the friends that swore to go through thick and thin with you, leaving you in your most vulnerable times—how could they!

Although you were burning with anger, even that was quickly forgotten thanks to him. He was your absolute everything, your entire world and you were much obviously his. You two were a match made in heaven—or at least that's what you believed until that one phone call.

“Stacey?—”

“You have to get out of there! He isn't what he seems to be— your husband, he’s crazy! He threatened me! If I didn't stop being in contact with you then he would have also murdered me like he did with your family—” your heard your friend over the phone, voice unusually frail, breaths laboured with sniffling in the background.

Your heart leaped in your chest at the sound of her frantic claims, completely unbelievable and baffling, even if your trust for her had completely evaporated, uncertainty still poisoned you and infiltrated your mind like a sickness.

Nevertheless you did end the call before she could spew anymore nonsense, sealing her terrible fate, because unbeknownst to you, that was the last time she would ever talk to anyone.

Things didn't feel normal anymore after that, suspiciousness spread through you, gnawing at your already highly sensitive nerves, you instability just making you waver back and forth from completely denying the unapparent truth and panicking that perhaps it was true. She was your friend for years after all, what reason did she have to lie?

That was until you found Stacey’s childhood diary in his possession with dried splatter of blood decorating it—as if this wasn't terrifying enough what met you on the inside made you drop the book, completely mortified and stunned into silence.

Every entry that contained your name scribbled over with hearts, anything that had to do with you underlined, things that you liked circled in like a madman.

You were terrified to say the least—she was right, she was right and you didn't believe her.

Tears welled up in your eyes and before you knew it, your feet carried you out of your shared home, still in your PJ's with slippers adorning your feet.

Which leads to this moment in the present.

Unfortunately for you, he had knowingly bought a house with your inheritance, in the middle of nowhere. You were stumbling over twigs, leaves crushing beneath your weight and before you knew it, you were running.

Yet you did forget one crucial aspect—running didn't help when he could track you down with the GPS clipped under your skin so subtly you didn't even realise he had done so.

Bang.

Pain shot through your thigh, an excruciating amount, making you instantly stumble, before tumbling down, face first into the wet earth, crying out in pain.

Blood seeped out from where he shot you, painting the forest floor a warning crimson. You tried to crawl, you attempted to flee, but all was for nothing, no one and nothing could have tear you two apart, even if it was you.

Fingers roughly whipped your head back, scalp burning from the abuse.

“There you are, love.” he spat out, the familiar warmth gone replaced by an indefinite disdain.

“You saw it, huh? You learned about everything I did for you and that's how you thank me? By running away just cuz’ I committed some petty crimes?” he shook your head violently, before shoving your face into the mud. Before he ripped your head out of the earth, starting to fall into a pattern, repeating it over and over again till your vision faded with only his words ringing into your ears, as blood ran down your presumably broken nose, eyes swelling with unshed tears of a gruesome future that awaited you.

“You're weak. And dumb. But don't you worry, I will take care of you. I will love you, look after you, clean up each mess you make, be there to rock you back and forth when you have one of your meltdowns again. So don't worry your stupid little head about anything,

just trust me, love.”

[mint-8]

Platonic Yandere Red Riding Hood x Wolf! GN! Reader

Trigger/Content warning: Mentions of murder, guns and death. This is purely platonic love and not sexual in any way. Romantic or sexual attraction to real animals is due to a mental illness called zoophilia, and no one should have such feeling towards real animals or pets. If you ever happen to experience such feelings, please, seek for psychological help immediately.

- Yandere Little Red who left their home to visit their grandparent who lived far away from their village. “They did something very bad” their parents would say. “They have no shame” the townsfolk would proclaim. But Little Red didn’t give a damn, they loved their gran-gran and they would see them even if it kills them.

- Yandere Little Red who saw a cute patch of flowers near the road they usually take. “How pretty!” They said, “Gran-Gran would love them!” They didn’t care that the hunter told them it would be unwise to divert from the main road, they were too tired of having to put up with their boring hunting stories, or nonchalantly talking about how they killed an innocent bear or wolf that was just living in the woods!

- Yandere Little Red who could feel that someone was watching them. Perhaps one of the bully kids from their class? Or was it the town’s creep? It didn’t matter to Little Red, for the knife that their grandparent gifted them in their birthday is safely tucked in their basket. “I’ll just cut them if they get too close” Little Red thought, “It’s not like anyone would really miss them”

- Yandere Little Red who, after collecting tons of beautiful flowers for their grandparent, finally notice who was watching them from the woods. You. Huge, black wolf you was observing them silently. You weren’t sure why a little child was here in the woods, but you couldn’t leave them alone! What if a dangerous person tries to take advantage of them? So you decided to stay put and intervene if they were in trouble.

- Yandere Little Red who got closer to the wolf, not feeling any hostility, but a comfort and warmth they haven’t felt with anyone other than their gran-gran. Big, bad wolf you let them get closer and even pet you! You were so envious of the town’s dogs getting pets and sweet treats, you wanted to know what it felt like!

- Yandere Little Red who offers some bread to the big, bad wolf, and you happily accept while rewarding them with more cuddles! And Little Red is the happiest they’ve ever been since that annoying classmate died from ‘accidentally’ falling from a cliff. Little Red had nothing to with that incident, they promise!

- Yandere Little Red who, from now on, always takes a detour to find you every time they go to visit their grandparent. They cuddle you, give you sweets, and gush about you to their gran-gran!

- Yandere Little Red who considers you as their best and only friend in this shit hole they call home, aside from their grandparent, of course. They are more than willing to sabotage the hunter’s guns, slash their tires and perhaps add some poison to their drink so they won’t get too close to your den. They will murder and butcher any random villager if it meant feeding you through the winter and will sneak you into the farmer’s barn to protect you from the elements.

- You will forever be their Big, good wolf and they will be your Red Riding Hood.

“I’ll love you forever, ok mister wolf?”

“(Happy pants and licks)”

[alexanderwales]

When the BTK killer resumed messaging the cops in 2004, he did a lot of research into how not to get caught, some of it by just chatting up police and FBI agents. Long after the fact, it was revealed that some FBI agent had (accidentally) talked him out of sending emails, because there was no way to do it truly anonymous.

So he sent messages that were typewritten or printed and then photocopied multiple times. One of the then-recent technologies were document tracking marks, little near-invisible yellow dots that the FBI could look for, along with marks on the edges of the documents. He made sure to use public equipment at libraries and copier places, so nothing could be traced to his specific personal stuff. He wore gloves while he did all this. He would carefully cut off the edges of the pieces of paper, to remove the tracking marks. He would use older equipment he'd researched that didn't have tracking technology.

All this is like ... the kind of thing you'd see in a cop show, or a movie, right? Some little bit of technobabble where the protagonist explains that our killer is clever enough to have gotten around all this stuff.

So why did BTK stop doing this? Why'd he send in a floppy?

Well, this was all really time-consuming. He had a job, he was a church leader, he did Boy Scouts, he had a family, he was scouting victims, and he was just annoyed that he was spending all this time trying not to be caught.

This is just ... so macabrely funny to me? He had this involved plan for how to taunt the police and get away with it, and it was working, and he just ... found covering his tracks tedious? It just does not match with the movie version or popular conception at all. There's this recurring trope of the "careful and meticulous" serial killer who has thought of everything and is one step ahead, but I have never seen that same serial killer taking all these precautions as being intensely irritated by how time-consuming taunting the police is. The grizzled detective says, "He'll slip up, and that's how we catch him", but this is framed like getting sloppy is a result of escalation, or like the detective is going to outwit the guy. And instead, at least in the case of BTK, it was that he found the evasion thing just really supremely boring and tedious. It took too much time out of his day.

In the show Dexter they show him lovingly arranging his kill rooms, setting out his tools like this is "part of it" for him. But the kill rooms and the tools are a way to not get caught, they're not necessarily part of the fantasy or whatever. So you could write Dexter, but we spend a lot of time with him going to out-of-the-way hardware stores using cash to pay for things, and being just ... rolling his eyes the whole time, tapping his foot, trying to manage these mundane aspects.

I have a love and appreciation for the mundane, maybe because I'm a contrarian, maybe because I see it so seldom. And this is a little moment that stands out to me, something that happened not because of an ever-increasing bloodlust or a clever detective, but because going to different copy stores and cutting the edges off papers to recopy was tedious.

[eevees-hobbies]

Your Killer Client - NSFW (Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou)

Synopsis: You need to ask for a raise because not only do you regularly have to deal with tom-foolery as a sports agent to egoist soccer players like Shoei Barou, but he also moonlights as a murderer. Girl, send the invoice now! Wait, you're into it...?

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou. DEAD DOVE WARNING. If you are uncomfortable with disturbing themes like murder, you should not read this. Murder w/no remorse & def. Not taken seriously by Reader (you and Shoei are NOT normal), Knifeplay, DubCon to be safe, Deification (treating someone as if they are a God), Unprotected Sex. Cursing. Minors Do Not Interact. || Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: Heavily inspired by American Psycho, Scream, and Hip to Be Scared by Ice Nine Kills, so some quotes are nestled in there! This is for the "No, You Hang Up" Kinktober Ghostface Collab event. Reblogs & comments always appreciated.

Banner by me. Divider by @sister-lucifer

Why do all my clients have to live on the top floor of skyscrapers? I’ve been on this elevator for seven fucking minutes!

As one of the top sports agents in the industry, you’ve grown accustomed to the eccentricities of your clients: lavish penthouses, all-weekend sex parties that end up with a few broken hearts–never your clients, of course, and some not-so-flattering stories in the tabloids.

But right now, your focus is on the most unique client on your roster: world-renowned striker Shoei Barou. Sure, he often refers to himself as a “King,” which is odd and speaks to a deep-rooted ego problem, but the man is a force on the field. The endorsement deals never truly stop–being the villain is currently en vogue–and he pays really, really well. So to you, it’s all hail King Barou every fucking day.

As you step into his condo using your personal key after giving a few warning knocks but getting no response, you aren’t met with a simple hi, a gruff hello, or even a measly fucking grunt. No, you’re met with something far more exciting for a Wednesday!

“I fucked up bad.”

“I fucked up real fuckin’ bad.”

Shoei has his face buried in his palms; his bare shoulders are hunched tightly at his neck, and dried blood coats his hands and lower arms. 

That can’t be good for his posture, you think to yourself as you take inventory of the scene. Tipped-over cans of beer litter the pristine carpet, pizza boxes lay ajar, and the half-eaten pies are on the brink of becoming inedible as they sit out and harden from exposure to the cool air in the condo.

The mess is unlike him, but even more jarring is the body that’s splayed out, thick pools of dark-red blood coalescing around the nobody–god, you’re internal monologue sounds like Barou–and staining his pristine carpet. He doesn’t even let you wear shoes in his condo, but bleeding all over the place is fine apparently. 

“Y/N, you know I’m a bit fucking psychotic, but I’ve crossed the line, and I don’t think I’m going to get away with it this time.”

This time?

You find yourself oddly at peace with the scene. Sure, RIP to the poor sap laying in his own guts on the floor, but you’re actually more surprised Shoei hasn’t hurt someone sooner with his temper, and truth be told, you’ve seen much worse from some of your other clients. 

A sudden sniffle breaks you out of your thoughts, and you turn your head to the Barou, who looks so pitifully tiny hunched over as he sobs into his hands. “You aren’t crying, are you?” 

Your tone is rather harsh, and you mentally chastise yourself for your blunt delivery, but it’s too late–the question is already hanging laboriously in the air. Regardless, this is Barou! He curses you out practically every day and sends you a check with an obscene amount of dollar signs the next week! 

Barou peels his face out of his hands, his expression shifting between disturbance and disgust at your question.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who committed murder, not me.”

Shit. Maybe that was a beat too far because Barou rises quickly, his muscles rippling under his skin, tension coiled dangerously as he moves toward you with his hands clenched into tight fists. 

You don’t move because well, if this is your time to go, this is your time to go–you always knew it would be one of your clients, but you had clocked Ryusei as the one who was going to end you, not Barou. 

Huh, the universe is funny like that.

But Barou doesn’t swing or wrap his large hands around your throat; no, instead, he stops in front of you and sinks to his knees, those same hands that were used to take a man’s life grip at your dress in desperation.

“Please. I don’t want to go to jail. I still have championships to win and people to destroy.”

Of fucking course.

But fuck, seeing him on his knees like this stirs something in you–maybe it’s that you want to protect him or maybe you want to demand he lick a long stripe from your inner thighs to the seat of your panties since he’s already down there.

Focus.

You reach a pretty pedicured hand down, your nails digging into that well-defined jaw that’s justifiably earned him a full page spread in GQ magazine, and tilt his head upwards.

For a moment, you bask in the feeling that he’s looking up at you as though you’re someone to pray to–someone who can grant mercy and absolution for his sins. It’s fucking intoxicating being in this position and feeling like you hold his life in your hand because you undeniably do.

“Do you see what I am for you?” you whisper.

Crimson eyes stare up at you–big, pleading, desperate.

“I’m salvation,” you breathe in finality with only yourself, Shoei, and the dead nobody to bear witness.

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he looks up at you. “You can help…?”

You give him a sideways glance, knowing that you’ve got him right where you want him. “Oh, I can do more than help, sweetie. I can fix it.” You let the word ‘fix’ sit weighty in the air, a silent understanding passing between you as he sighs, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll give you a massive bonus if you can, well, you know.” He motions to the body, his eyes darting away quickly.

You, being a person who takes initiative, are already reaching into your pocket to make a call to a ‘cleaner’ that you keep on retainer. But as your finger hovers over the call button, you spot something peculiar not too far from the body. When you came in, you thought it was a tarp, Shoei’s poor attempt at cleaning up the evidence of his crime, but as you croon your neck to get a better look, you realize that it’s too small to be a tarp. 

On the floor, discarded but an obvious eyesore in the perfectly curated space is a cloak, a knife, and a….what the fuck? Is that a mask?

You walk over to the discarded costume, being careful to step over the body because you’ll be damned if you’re implicated in this mess, and nudge the mask with the toe of your heel. It’s a fucking Ghostface mask. How….macabre.

Shoei must feel the judgment flowing from your pores because he’s instantly sneering and hovering near you, his arm brushing against yours in what feels oddly intimate, considering the circumstances.  

“I didn’t want to kill him and get his blood all over my clothes, so I put on my Halloween costume to finish him off.”

“Do I want to know what you fought over?”

“Would it matter?”

You open your mouth to reply, but you pause because you realize that it doesn’t matter–even though you’re standing over a dead body and unreasonably close to his killer, you’re also painfully aware of the heat emitting from Shoei, the scent of his sweat–because killing someone is undoubtedly hard work–and the soft node of his cologne as it fills your nostrils.

And strangely, you’ve never been more turned on.

“What was it like? Killing him, I mean?”

Shoei turns to you, a flicker of surprise and something else–lust, perhaps–shining in his eyes. He pauses for a beat, studying your face to gauge your intentions before he answers. 

“I’ve never felt more powerful in my life.”

As he continues to speak, you notice the way his jaw clenches slightly, his adams apple bobbing as he recounts how he felt during the murder, and the distinct tent growing in his sweats.

“I thought being the king on the field, crushing people’s dreams and making them realize that I’m actually the main character in their own pathetic lives was fucking amazing, but slicing him up and seeing him choke on his own blood as I fucking finished a slice of pizza was the best I’ve felt in ages.”

And to the best of your knowledge, Shoei isn’t a liar. That answer was so honest that it was almost endearing.

Your eyes wander to the knife at your feet. The blood is thicker than what you’d imagine it to be–not that you spend time sitting around imagining blood-stained weapons. You bend down, pick up the knife, and examine it, holding it only inches from your face.

“It’s heavier than I expected,” you muse aloud. You bring the knife up to your neck, holding the blade to your throat, tilting your head back to avoid any knicks but still enough to feel the sticky, cold liquid smudge against the thundering pulse located in the column of your throat.

“That’s not how you hold it. If you aim the blade too high, you risk hurting them, but they won’t bleed out. You gotta hold it down; it gives you the best chance for a clean kill. Let me show you.” 

He wraps his hand around yours, guiding the knife in a way that does make sense–the new angle gives you a far better grip, and you realize that if you move even an inch, you risk cutting yourself.

“You know an awful lot about cutting throats, Barou.” 

He stiffens behind you. In that moment, something in the room shifts–as though the mask of sanity he was wearing, and has always worn, has slipped off to reveal something far more dangerous.

Shoei’s lips press against the shell of your ear, and his husky purr reverberates through your very bones. 

“Maybe a little.” 

You feel his other hand travel to your hip as he removes the knife from your palm and holds it in front of your face. It doesn’t exactly feel like a threat, but just as much as Shoei’s pulse beats slow in high-stress situations, so does yours because you’ve always been a bit different, too.

Your phone still in your hand feels like lead, heavy but useless, as he pulls it from your grip and tosses it to the couch. 

“I don’t think you understand how much I like my freedom, Y/N. I don’t think you understand how important it is to me that you appreciate the sanctity of our relationship and not make any assumptions about what I have–or haven’t done–before.” He brings the knife closer to your lips, smearing the blood across them as if you’re wearing candy-apple red lipstick.

“Discretion is my specialty,” you whisper, tongue darting out to taste the blood.

Shoei groans, his large frame pressing into you as he guides you to the arm of his couch, bending you over and splaying a large hand across the small of your back. 

“You’ve always been so good to me. Why have we never…?” As he speaks, he’s hiking up your skirt. His touch feels strangely reverent, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the nature of your relationship or because you now know way too much about each other. 

Shoei’s eyes narrow as he spots your underwear–a pesky barrier he plans to eliminate in the most efficient way he knows how. He brings the knife up to the cool cheeks of your ass, dragging the tip of the blade against your skin and leaving red whelps that threaten to bleed if he uses a bit more pressure.

“We’ve never fucked because you’re kind of a dick.”

“True,” he mumbles as he pulls the fabric of your panties and cuts through them until the garment sits against your skin but no longer covering any inch of you that matters. 

You let out a breathy moan as you can feel the tip of his cock nudging against the ring of your cunt, stretching you out deliciously until he snaps his hips, fully sheathing himself into your heat. His hand reaches under you as he presses at your pelvis, feeling where he can feel himself pushing inside of you.

He’s not gentle as he takes you, but you don’t need him to be. You want him as he is: perfect, godly, everything. 

“You’re not going to scream? Most people would call me inhuman for what I’ve done.”

“No, I actually think you’re more in touch with your humanity than you think, Barou. You’re just capable of doing what others can’t because you’re a God.”

And you’re not just saying that because there’s an alleged–because innocent until proven guilty and all that jazz–serial killer deep in your guts right now. You’ve known it for some time–that Shoei is everything that he says he is–a king, a God, the main character in everyone’s world, including yours.

You can’t take your eyes off the body on the floor as Shoei guides your hips in the way he likes–angling his own to drag his cock against your walls, verbally praising your cunt for how she’s gripping him. “You’re a fucking freak. You’re so fucking wet; I’m not going to last long with her sucking me off like this.”

His fingers thread through your hair, forcing your head back so he can look at your face as he molds your cunt into the shape of his cock. “Fuck, look at you taking care of me like a good little sports agent.” He throws his head back with a low, guttural moan, lost in the feeling of you and how you make him feel–powerful.

His thighs tense, his abs flexing as he gets closer to the edge, but at the last minute, he pulls out warm thick ropes of his cum, shooting onto your ass. After a few low groans, he smacks your ass and tucks himself back in his pants.

“So, you going to call those people to come and fix this?”

“Yeah,” you say as you stand up, straightening yourself out. “But I’m going to need another bonus for that.”

@interstellar-inn @pixelcafe-network @hayatoseyepatch

[aka-indulgence]

So... me and @llamagoddessofficial have been cooking up an au for a while... let me show you our hmf!Sans :> (Horror Mafiafell Sans)

You're a waitress working at a bar/restaurant, and a certain skeleton has been coming back again and again. You can't help but wonder... why?

---

“He’s all yours, babe.”

You look up from notes on the wall. You’d like to ask ‘who?’ but both you and Lisa know there was no use. You already knew who it was. You didn’t even have to look out the circular window to check. You just stare at Lisa helplessly.

“Really?” You try, “can’t you just… a bit longer?”

Your words come out a perfect mess. Lisa understands anyway.

“Look… I don’t know how to tell you this (Y/n),” She puts a hand on her hip, “you know I can’t go back out there to him.”

“But…!”

You bite your lip. You know she’s telling the truth. You wish you could tell her to suck it up and go back there, no matter how scared she was but… you’re not taking chances with the current patron sitting in the corner of the bar. No one would.

For Lisa’s… and everyone’s sake, you’re not going to see what he might do if you sent her out to tell him that you won’t be serving him tonight.

You sigh, and take a peek through the window. Though elusive nowadays, it was unmistakable who the man- the skeleton in question was.

Sans was built like a tank, his form hunched over the table. Even sitting on the wide, plush red sofa, he looked like a giant, dwarfing the table and chairs like they were playsets. Monsters were already bigger than humans in general but him… he grew bigger than he used to- at least from what you’ve heard. Not like you knew the mob boss years and years ago before he got his infamous skull injury, and the blown eye in his left socket that was soaked in the blood of those who had crossed him. His mouth was set in a frown, filled with razor sharp teeth- one of which was golden.

The same scary face you saw shrouded in shadows in the alleyway, a sharp bone gripped in his large hand, dripping red.

You fled that night, not quite believing what you’d saw. That you’d just saw a skeleton kill a guy in the back of the restaurant? That it was the mob boss Sans?! He didn’t chase you then, and you hoped that’d be the end of it but then… he showed up to the bar as a patron one night.

You were almost certain then, that he had come to kill you. Especially when your dear friend Lisa had so helpfully told you that he’d asked for you in particular.

“her…” his bony finger had pointed at you. She DID tried to save you, to err on mistake- which one did you mean sir?

But every time you moved, his phalange followed. There was no mistaking who he was asking for.

You remember her panicked voice.

“He asked for you! Specifically!”

“W… huh? Why’d he ask for me? Can… are you sure-”

“YES! And I don’t know WHY!”

As reluctant as you were, you still went to serve him. You asked for his order while your grip on your pencil and notepad got slippery as your palms got sweaty. He took his time ordering, perusing through the menu with great attention, while you were praying that your legs didn’t looks as shaky as they felt. You’d never rush him, of course, even if you hadn’t seen him towering over a dead body.

You took his order, served it (stuttering), and… then he left.

… And came back. Again, and again. Every time, he’d ask for you to serve him. He always stares when you weren’t at his table (and actually, when you were at his table too). You could feel that red eye staring a hole into your back from behind. It was unnerving.

It’s a wonder why a man of his infamy would choose a bar like this. You’ve seen your fair share of criminals in this job- it was an alright-sized bar, and not exactly in the best place in town. You’ve learnt to turn the other cheek whenever they were around (and you were sure you didn’t realize just how many of the patrons were gangsters), pretend you were blind to their… occupation.

None of them had been as scary as Sans, though. In fact, his presence alone was enough to drive away most petty criminals.

This place was nothing special. It’s a wonder why he’d choose this place out of all places, especially for a guy who doesn’t like being seen much.

… Ok, that was a lie. Everyone working knew that he was here for you. But that didn’t explain the why.

It was clear to you now that he wasn’t coming here to kill you for witnessing… what you witnessed (Why was a man like Sans doing in that nothing alleyway anyway?). But if not for that then… why did he keep coming, to keep asking for you? Maybe he had… business around here and he liked the place enough to keep coming?

Whatever it was, he was here for a reason and you just… don’t get it.

You don’t get why he wants you to be the one serving him every time he was around, but you did anyway. It’s been a couple of nights now, but you can’t say you’ve become less nervous over time.

After a small inner pep talk to yourself and wringing your hands, you push open the door, walking into the dining area. There isn’t a lot of people inside, a common occurrence whenever Sans visited. Even if it had been busy before, some people would hurriedly finish up whatever they were doing, paying all at once and leaving. You’ve even seen someone stop before finishing their meal. The rest that stayed sat uncomfortably, trying their best to ignore the menacing air that the skeleton brought with him everywhere he’d go.

It didn’t work, of course. A presence like that wasn’t you could easily ignore.

(You wish you could ignore him.)

You smile awkwardly as you walk to his table, setting his drink down. At least you had a little bit of your work cut out for you, with Lisa taking his drink order. His eye zeroed in on you as soon as he noticed you, and though you’ve been taught it’s rude to not make eye contact, with him it felt like looking him in the eye would be the wrong thing to do.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” you ask, your voice sweet and soft as ever, hiding the sound of your beating heart.

He stares.

He always stares.

You see his pupil dilate a little, then he opens his mouth.

“want…”

Sans was a man of few words. He only said his order, and nothing else. It kept your meetings with him brief- even when it looked like he wanted to say something else, he wouldn’t.

This time, he spaces off for a moment, eye looking away from you. You watch his brows draw together, pinched as he concentrates on a thought. You wish you knew what he was thinking of, especially when his frown starts to peel back into a snarl, like he was angry.

You definitely weren’t expecting a hand around your waist, snatching you a second later.

You squeaked, notepad and pencil clattering to the floor, bumping against his sturdy chest. Everyone heard and turned to look, and as soon as they saw tiny you, sitting on the giant’s lap, practically all of them pointedly turned away. You wish they were still looking now- you were pleading with your eyes, help me I don’t think I’m supposed to be here!

He pushes you here and there, so that you’re sat more comfortably on his lap. Your mind goes blank, your body freezes. You could feel his chest expanding and contracting as he breathes. He sounds much calmer now that you were on his lap. Your breaths are shallow, and stop completely when you feel one arm wrap around your middle, like a restraint. His free hand raises, calling for Lisa, who you’ve just noticed is watching from the corner, clutching her apron, as clueless as you are. She approaches, trying to keep her eyes on the skeleton instead of you.

“... burgers.” he says, simply. She nods, and gives you a glance.

You furrow your brows, and you want to hiss Lisa help me! But as soon as she sees your expression she turns around, avoiding eye contact. You could almost hear her say sorry babe, can’t help you there!

You almost call out to her when a hand lands on your head. You go stiff, and after you take a quick peek at him, you look straight ahead. The monster’s phalanges start petting you, slowly, sinking into your hair, scratching your scalp. Sans let’s out a long breath, brushing your hair. A shiver runs down your neck.

… Well. I think I’ll be here for a while…

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

Sitting on the lap of a giant skeleton was certainly an experience. You tried distracting yourself, but it was impossible when you could feel every time Sans breathed. There was nothing you could do but sit there, playing with your apron until it was a crumpled mess, sweating a puddle onto your uniform… and maybe onto Sans’ expensive suit. You couldn’t relax, even though taking away big scary skeleton aside, he was comfortable to sit on, and he was warm… and smelled of rain and embers of a dying cigar.

He ate carefully, always leaning forward (squishing you against his chest) when he took a bite of his burger, making sure the crumbs wouldn’t fall on the top of your head, wiping his hands and his mouth before he leaned back. You could feel him sighing, and since he was the only thing you could notice, it felt like this was the most relaxed he’s ever been while in the bar, his breathing slow. Apparently he really liked your hair, with how his claws kept carding through it, even while he was eating. When his hands were clean, he’d let his hands wander all over you- but nothing untoward. You could feel him tilting his skull forward to look at you, while he thumbed your cheek, and his other hand roamed around your waist and belly. Though you were nervous, you could feel when he rubbed your thigh that it didn’t feel particularly… heated.

He sighs, and you feel the pressure of his skull on the top of your head. It took everything in you not to hunch over and avoid it. You screw your eyes shut when you feel him turn his skull, and it felt like he was… rubbing his cheek on you? Like he was snuggling you? Is… is that what he’s doing?

You’re not sure and your nerves are too frayed to call it that.

He didn’t stop after he finished either, his plate clean. He was still there- and subsequently, you stayed sitting on his lap- even after they closed the bar. It was just him now. Your coworkers kept the lights on just for him, and even most of them have gone.

He’s leaning back on the cushions, and he brought both his arms around you to pull you plush against his chest, almost tucked into his neck. You wondered if this was what a teddy bear would feel like, being hugged.

The bartender was cleaning up in the kitchen. It was just you and him in the dining area.

You swallowed… wondering what he wants to do. It’s past closing, late at night, just the two of you, and his hands were still (gently) rubbing you. They haven’t gone anywhere private but- what if he wanted to? … What if he wasn’t here to kill you but.. wanted you to… you don’t know, service him or something? Did he have unsavory requests for you?

You think that thought might’ve scared you even more than the thought of him killing you.

You startle when he grunts eventually, like he’s addressing you. A giant hand cups your cheeks and against your will they turn pink. Even though you were frightened, even if his touches were unsexual they still felt… intimate.

You squeak for the second time that night when both his hands pick you up, and sets you down on the sofa. You feel a ball form in your throat when he stands up and turns to you, thoughts running with all sorts of ‘what-ifs’. He takes your hand, opening it up, and then…

And then he places a thick wad of cash in it.

“... thank you.” He says, quiet.

You stare at the stack of paper on top of your hand, blinking once, before turning to the skeleton, jumping in your seat.

He was gone, just like that.

He was always quiet, wasn’t he?

You sit there dumbfounded, for what felt like minutes, your lips parted, money still sitting innocently in your hand. You think no one can blame you when the only thing you said after you sat there in silence was a very emphatic “... Huh?”

[cobwebs-in-autumn]

Hush

Based on an ask I sent to @ceilidho

A bang. The smash of skin on glass as the grease ridden boy he grasped squealing like some dying pig, begging for his life, for help, pounding on your door pleadingly. Calling out “Please! Help me! PLEASE!” like any person in the world could save him from Ghost’s clutches. And even if they could, he was already a goner. The knife in his back coming out all the way only to slam back into the hilt just a few centimeters away. Then again, and again, and again. Ghost’s eyes on you the entire time, obliviously cleaning up your kitchen.

A sweet bunny, nibbling at the petals of some flower and never seeing the wolf creeping up behind you, jaw open and teeth bared. Ready to snatch up an easy kill.

Simon’s breathing picked up, blunt nails digging into the pale hip of the boy in front of him, carving deep crescent marks into his flesh and making it bleed, cock twitching to fullness against the admittedly plump ass of the other man.

He wondered if your ass felt as soft, as plush. How it would feel to slide his cock between your cheeks before prying them apart with blood covered hands and spitting on your winking hole. Would you beg for more? Or beg for him to stop?

Would you squeal and whine when he fucked that tight little hole the same way he was using his knife on this whimpering boy? His pace changed suddenly, harder thrusts being traded for something a bit slower, almost teasing. Imagining you sweaty and pliant beneath him, mouth wide open and practically begging for him to spit in it.

Good girl. Obedient girl. You’d be so good for him, wouldn’t you? Suck his blood stained fingers clean after a long day at work then spread your legs for him to fit himself between? You’d probably even enjoy being walked around on a leash like a dog, crawling after him with your tongue out and hips wiggling.

Good. Girl.

His fly dampened with his spend as he creamed his pants to the mental image, ducking his head and panting into the chestnut locks of the now cold body in front of him, eyes focused only on you.

[badaziraphaletakes]

Ngl the “Aziracrow and Boxfly are gonna end up best friends” trope gives me the ick.

Jokes are all well and good, but I hope we all know that this wouldn’t be a good idea IRL.

Do Boxfly deserve the chance to be free and happy? Sure. But I can’t imagine a universe where I’d be comfortable spending time around two people who’d tried to murder me and my husband. That’s just, and this is the understatement of the millennium, not something you can come back from.

You’ve changed and you’re a better person now? Good. I’m sincerely happy to hear that - now, please, by all means, feel free to go and be a better person somewhere far, FAR away from me and the people I love.

There’s nothing on Aziracrow’s faces when we find out about Boxfly's romance to suggest they aren't still deeply afraid of them. (In fact, arguably the fact that Crowley encourages them to go a long, long way away would seem to imply the opposite. Lol.)

Just something to think about.

[smalllonelyegg]

me: I wonder what the fallout fandom is up to :)

the fallout fandom: FREESIDE IS FULL OF WORTHLESS BUMS WHO DESERVE TO GET SHOT IF THEY TRY TO LEAVE! IF THEY WANT A BETTER LIFE THEY SHOULD JUST GET A JOB

me: that’s enough of the fallout fandom :)

[dream-a-little-bigger-x]

Maybe We'll Take Some Time | Spencer Reid

Add yourself to my taglist! | Here’s my masterlist!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer and Reader broke up five weeks ago. When he comes knocking on her door, crying about a friend's death, their love is resparked.

Warnings: Emily's death, canon murder, SMUT, MDNI 18+!!

Author's note: Reader going from ME to nurse doesn't make sense, but let's ignore that and pretend it's possible, all right? Thanks.

Words: 5.4K

It had been five weeks. 

Five weeks since Spencer and y/n had broken up. It had been a mutual decision to call it quits. Neither one of their jobs allowed them to maintain a healthy relationship. For either one of them to be happy, they had no other choice but to let each other go. 

The two had met on the job. While Spencer was a prolific profiler with the FBI, y/n was a medical examiner. During a local case in Virginia, y/n was examining the corpse of a young woman who had fallen victim to a guy the FBI was trying to catch. 

Spencer was gobsmacked at how y/n sounded almost excited about the things she found on the body. She found fascinating things, which ultimately led to the perfect victim profile. It had been the way y/n was so confident about what she had established, the way her eyes lit up with every aspect of the exam. 

However, he never asked her out. He figured they were on the job and needed to be professional. Besides, the chances of them seeing each other again were so slim, he thought. 

But he was proven wrong when the two of them kept bumping into one another. At the coffee shop, at the library, during another case. It was only when y/n moved from being a Medical Examiner to working at the hospital and she was his doctor when he got shot in the knee, that he finally decided to test his luck. 

“Well, once you’re back on your feet…” she handed him a card, “Call me.” 

It wasn’t until a few weeks later when she finally got the call. The two went out for coffee together and had the best time ever. They would talk about whatever came up and y/n allowed Spencer to ramble on about his favorite subjects. After three dates, y/n finally decided she’d had enough of waiting for him to make the first move and kissed him first instead. 

Their relationship was loving and fun until all they were doing was fight about how little they saw each other. Near the end, their fights became petty and about the lousiest of things. After nearly a year of dating, they finally decided to call it quits. 

Y/N often found herself thinking about him, but never did she allow herself to call him. Even if she had to fight the urge to do so. It was better for the both of them if they weren’t in each other’s lives for a while. 

One night, y/n was rereading “Something Wicked This Way Comes” by Ray Bradbry, a book she had read multiple times with Spencer. One that reminded her of him. She was missing him a little more than usual this time, especially with how the rain was pelting against the windows. It was a very typical autumn night, one they would usually spend together, curled up on the couch with books in their laps. 

She was nearly halfway through the book when her doorbell rang. Her brows furrowed as she got up, confused about who could be at her door. It wasn’t like she was expecting someone. After patting her cat’s head, she moved over towards the intercom. 

Pushing the button, she said, “Hello-o?” with that little lilt in her voice he loved so much. 

“Y/N… It’s me…” 

Her world started spinning. It almost felt like she was dreaming. How could it be possible that on the night she missed him the most, he somehow ended up ringing her doorbell? Of course he did. It wasn’t a surprise that even after five weeks apart, they still had the connection. 

“Spencer –” she puffed out some air. “Come on up.” 

She pressed the buzzer to let him up. A tingle frazzled her stomach as she awaited his arrival. Suddenly, her mind started racing. She didn’t know why he was there, all she did know was that her apartment was a mess and now he was going to come up and see how much of a mess her life is now that he wasn’t in it anymore. 

As quickly as she could, she rummaged through her stuff, trying to put as much away as she could before the soft knock on her door stopped her. With trembling hands, she turned the doorknob. Before her appeared the one man she had come to love a little over a year ago. His hair was much shorter than it was the last time she’d seen him. 

“Hi–” she wanted to greet, but stopped when she saw the look on his face. 

His eyes were glazed with tears, his bottom lip quivering. “She–” he tried his voice, but as soon as it betrayed him with a crack, he stopped himself, coughed and tried again. “She’s dead…” As soon as the words left his mouth, he broke down. 

Unsure of what to do, y/n allowed Spencer to fall into her arms where he sobbed violently. Her heart broke at the feeling of this ball of mess breaking against her chest. With one hand, she shut her front door before guiding Spencer towards the couch. 

For a while, she let Spencer cry. His head laid on her chest while his body was wedged between her legs. Her hands were tangled up in his shorter locks, scratching his scalp soothingly. The exact same way they often cuddled after a particularly bad case that had Spencer shaking. She knew this would calm him down quicker than anything else. 

“What happened, angel?” she asked in a whisper, her lips pressed against his head in a kiss. 

Spencer wasn’t ready to talk yet and she didn’t press him to do so. Instead, she kept holding him and kissing his head and soothing his sobs until he was finally ready to do so. 

Wiping his tears, Spencer sat up straight again and y/n followed his example. She tucked her legs underneath her bum, giving him a little more space though he scooted closer as soon as he felt the lack of her presence. His fingers nervously plucked at a loose thread on her sweatpants. 

“It’s Emily,” he whispered, then sniffled. “She, uhm… She… She died.” His brows furrowed as though he was still confused about the facts. His eyes landed on her face, noticing how her eyes had filled with tears at the news. 

“What?” The word came out in a whisper, her voice not able to handle anything louder. 

She reached for his hand on her knee and squeezed. He recounted the events, not leaving anything out. After a good year with him and working the job she did, y/n wasn’t shy of any gory details. By the time he was at the end of the story, the two of them had been reduced to tears. The two of them just sat on the couch, holding hands and crying. 

“I came straight here after the hospital,” he admitted. “I-I didn’t really wanna go home and I–you–” He wasn’t sure how to end that sentence, but y/n understood him. Y/N always understood him. 

She entwined their fingers and squeezed reassuringly. “It’s okay, Spence. Do you want anything? Tea? Some food?” she asked and brushed a strand of his hair out of his face. When they were dating, she was always able to tuck a strand behind his ear, but with his shorter hair, that wasn’t possible anymore. “I bet you’re hungry.” 

“Uh, yeah… Actually,” he offered her a tender smile. 

Disentangling their hands, she patted his before getting up and walking to the kitchen. She heated up some leftover mac-and-cheese and filled up two cups with water. Once the pasta was warm, she took everything with her to the living room where Spencer was cuddling Mr. Gilbert, her cat.  

The two of them shared the bowl of pasta while chatting about how life had been treating them in the time they had separated. It was an amicable conversation that easily lapsed into stories about Emily. Y/N had spent some time with the team, too, so she knew Emily. The few times they had seen each other, they did get along very well. 

It got late. The two of them got too wrapped up in pleasant conversation that neither realized how late it was until Spencer fell asleep with his head in her lap. Soon enough, y/n herself fell prey to sleep. 

“Y/N.” At first, she thought she was dreaming, Spencer voice interlacing with her subconscious because she missed him. “Y/N.” The soft touch on her shoulder caused her mind to wake up before her eyes fluttered open as well. 

“Spence–” 

Everything that had happened last night filtered back into her brain. Spencer knocking on her door, crying, Emily dead, … All of it came back in flashes, reminding her of what he was doing in her place. 

“I-I’m gonna go home. I fell asleep, I’m so sorry,” Spencer muttered and as she watched him gather his discarded Converse, the pelting rain outside registered in her mind. 

“No,” she muttered and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes while getting up from the couch. “No, you’re not gonna go home through weather like this, Spence.”

A sigh heaved his chest. “Y/N–”

“Spencer, please, just stay. I really don’t mind…” She looked into his eyes, trying to figure out what that genius brain of his was thinking. “You can sleep on the couch, if you’re not comfortable sharing a bed anymore. Or you can quit being stubborn and come to bed with me.” 

A flash of recognition appeared in his eyes before he simply dropped his shoes again. With a smile, y/n reached out her hand for him to take, which he did, gladly so. Y/N handed him one of the many college shirts she had stolen and kept from him, earning a knowing glare from the boy. He stripped down to his underwear and chucked the shirt on before crawling into bed with her. 

As if on automatic pilot, the two of them drifted towards each other, limbs tangling together and her head finding its rightful spot on his chest. While the fingers of her right hand toyed with his short curls – she still couldn’t get over the fact he had cut his hair –, his hands found their spot on her lower back and her right upper arm. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, exhaling contently. 

Ten weeks. 

For ten weeks, Spencer came up to her apartment, crying on her shoulder every night because he missed Emily so much. She let him. She let him cry and sometimes, she cried with him. Every night, she’d make them dinner and they’d cry and fall asleep watching a movie together once they were all cried out. 

When he didn’t show up to her place one night around week ten, she’d grown worried. 

There was no way he would just skip out on dinner, suddenly feeling up for taking care of himself. Not without calling or texting first, at least. 

So, with worry pooling in her stomach, she picked up her phone and called him. When that went straight to voicemail, she tried again. And again. And again. After ten failed tries, she grabbed her keys and drove off to his place. 

She was lucky that one of his neighbors just left, so she could sneak in and rush up the stairs to apartment #23. Her heart was beating in her throat, worried about how she would find him. She knew about his struggles and his trauma. She knew about the addiction to dilaudid. And worst of all, she knew him. Whenever he’d pull away from his friends, from her, especially when something like this had happened, he would find his way back to the drug a little too easily. 

“Spence?!” she called out whilst knocking on his door. “Spencer, come on, baby, please!” She could hear the rustling behind the door. She knew he was in. “Let me in…” 

For five seconds, she fell silent, trying to weigh her options. She could wait here until he finally opened the door, or she could just kick it down. She’d seen Derek do it, surely she could attempt it too. Images of her trying to kick down the door flashed before her eyes. None of them ended very well. So, instead, she resorted to pounding the door instead. Surely, that would get his attention. 

“Spencer Reid! Open this door right now!” she yelled, a little too obnoxiously. 

Suddenly, the door opened just a smidge and Spencer’s head popped out. “Y/N,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Stop making so much noise. Go home. I’m not up for any company tonight.” 

His eyes were blood-shot, the same way they always were when he had been crying. His usually softly curled hair was an absolute mess, sticking out on the sides. To y/n, that just meant that he’d been tugging at it in frustration. Aside from the physical signs, there was also the pushing away. A sure sign that he was, in fact, struggling, and that he needed someone. 

That he needed her. 

Spencer went to close the door, but before it could fall shut, y/n stopped it, placing her flat hand on the wood with all her might. “You are not getting rid of me that easily, Reid,” she grumbled before pushing herself through into his apartment, much to Spencer’s dismay. 

Protests flew off his lips as soon as she started looking around for any evidence that he had, in fact, taken the dilaudid. At first, she thought he was clear, but then her eyes fell on Spencer himself, who had one hand in his pocket, his fingers twirling around something in it. 

Red hot flashes of anger coursed through y/n as she surged forward and grabbed his wrist. Spencer yelled at her, telling her to let go, trying to push her off. But y/n was stronger than he was, or more stubborn. She didn’t let go until she had pried the small vials of dilaudid out of his hand.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Spencer?!” she yelled at him, waving the evidence around in her fury as she distanced herself from him. 

His jaw clenched as he looked at her before matching the volume of her voice. “I was thinking that I’m missing my friend and the woman I love will never love me again the way she did and that everything is hurting so bad that the only thing I’m craving right now is a bit of sweet relief from all of it!” 

She faltered at this. With her heart plummeting to her stomach and the stinging sensation of tears pricking her eyes, she looked at the broken man before her. The man she loved. The man she still loved. 

“Spencer, I get that you’re missing Emily. I miss her, too. But I’m right here. I’m. Right. Here.” With every word of that last sentence she took a step closer towards him until she was in front of him. “Please, baby, you know you can talk to me. I can offer you a shoulder to cry on and all the comfort food you need and I can…” She hesitated for a moment before leaning up and kissing the corner of his mouth. 

As she pulled back to gauge his reaction, she saw something familiar flash across his face. Without needing to ask what either of them was thinking, the two dove right in, locking lips in a passionate, heated kiss. His hands moved to cup her face whilst hers landed on his hips, pulling him impossibly closer by his sweater. 

They stumbled their way into Spencer’s bedroom without once breaking the kiss, even if that meant bumping into tables, cupboards and walls. They were used to gathering bruises from their walks into the bedroom. 

Clothes began flying about the room, the two of them desperately wanting to feel one another’s heated skin flush against their own. It didn’t take them too long before being half-naked and Spencer being on top of her on the bed. His hips grinded against her core, her desire pooling in her underwear. 

It had been a while since they had been in this position, but it all felt natural to them.    

Everything felt natural from the way his lips felt on the expanse of her neck to the way her name sounded through his labored breaths. It was as though they had never stopped being this close. 

Spencer worked his way down from her neck, between her breasts, across her stomach, all the way to her navel. Once he reached her silky underwear, he stopped and used his long, slender fingers to hook around the waistband and slowly pull it down. All she had to do was raise her hips whilst he kissed his way down her hips and inner thigh. 

The item of clothing was quickly strewn about the room whilst Spencer dipped down again, this time using a finger to stroke between her folds. He used his thumb to rub circles on her clit before he gently pushed his index finger inside, eliciting a delicious gasp from the girl underneath him. 

Encouraged by the sounds she was making, Spencer added a second finger. One hand of hers grabbed a hold of his curls whilst the others held a tight grip on the sheets. 

“Spencer,” she moaned and by the lilt in her voice, he already knew what she needed him to do. 

He retracted his fingers and replaced them with his tongue. Licking up her slick folds the way only he could, quickly sent her over the edge. Moans of his name bounced off the walls until that lilt in her voice was back. 

“Spencer, I need you–” she didn’t even need to finish her sentence for him to crawl back up. He kissed her lips sweetly whilst her hand moved from his hair down his chest and to his excited member. She used the precum that had gathered on his tip to smoothen her pumps. 

“Please,” Spencer moaned into her mouth. “I need to feel you…” 

She retracted her hand and wrapped one leg around his waist whilst he maneuvered towards her entrance. Sealed with another passionate kiss, Spencer took that as a reassurance to enter. As his hips grinded against hers, sticky skin slapping together at the movement, y/n kissed his jaw. When she pulled back and laid her head on the pillow again, she looked into his hazel eyes. 

There was that familiar shimmer again. The one she loved. The one she would kill for just to get a glimpse of. In the past ten weeks, it had been nearly impossible to catch even a sliver of it, so she made sure to enjoy it while it lasted. 

“I love you,” she whispered. 

Spencer dipped down to press a kiss underneath her ear. “I love you too,” he whispered back. 

Soft moans and gasps flew about the room, their love for each other conveyed by their actions. It didn’t take too long for the both of them to reach their high and for Spencer to collapse next to her. As if on automatic pilot, y/n moved so her head was lying on his chest, his arms caging her in. 

“Well…” she whispered, still buzzing. 

“Well…” he repeated in that same tone. 

It had surprised them to find themselves in this position again. They had broken up after all, but with all the emotions of the past ten weeks, they had seemingly found their way back to one another and back in each other’s bed. 

“This might be a better stress-relief than the drugs,” he muttered jokingly and kissed her head. 

Frowning, y/n turned her head to look at him. “Might be?!” 

That beautiful laugh of his rolled off his lips. “I’m kidding,” he said and kissed her forehead this time. “Thank you… For being here for me.” 

“You’re welcome.” She tilted her head a little more before planting her lips on his in another searing, spine-tingling kiss. 

The next morning, y/n offered to drive Spencer to work, and though he protested it, she left him no other choice. She wanted to see his colleagues again, too. It had been over four months since she had last seen them. 

And the reunion with one of his colleagues in particular was one he wouldn’t want to miss for the world. 

As soon as the two of them stepped out of the elevator, a loud gasp startled them. “Y/N Y/L/N! I MUST BE DREAMING!” the screeching voice of one Penelope Garcia sounded before she came barrelling down the hallway and scooped the thirty-year-old into her arms. 

“Hi, Penelope,” y/n giggled, hugging the blonde right back. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked and immediately gasped, looking between the two of them. “Are you two…?” She didn’t finish her sentence, but the two knew what she was asking them. 

The thing was that neither of them knew. They hadn’t talked about what had happened last night. It was something they needed to figure out on their own. So, for now, they both shook their heads. 

“No,” Spencer started. “She’s just been helping me get through everything, you know?” 

Penelope nodded her head, though she couldn’t miss the look Spencer gave the smaller woman. It was a look that told a thousand words. There was hope for the couple after all. 

Not catching either of the FBI employees’ looks, y/n was distracted by the other blonde in the building. The one she and Spencer had spent the most time with when they were still a couple. Spencer’s best friend, and inevitably, y/n’s best friend. 

“I’ll be right back. Gonna say hi to JJ,” she excused herself and walked up the small set of stairs towards the communication liaison’s office. Rapping on the door frame twice, she announced her arrival, capturing the woman’s attention. 

JJ’s blue eyes widened before she got up and met y/n halfway to embrace her. “Oh, it’s been so long! What are you doing here?”

“Dropped Spencer off and I wanted to come and say hi to my favorite blondes,” she told her, grinning. Upon noticing the shimmer in her bright blue orbs, y/n sighed and shook her head. That was enough for JJ to offer the woman a seat and take the one next to it herself. 

“What’s going on?” she asked. 

Y/N sighed. “Spencer came to me after – after Emily died…” she trailed off, trying to keep the tears at bay. “It’s been ten weeks of constant crying and taking care of him. And I…” The tears finally escaped, rolling down her cheeks in streams. The grief was finally catching up to her. “I wanna be there for him, but it’s hurting me too, you know? Emily was my friend, too, and I just haven’t really been able to grieve.” 

A soothing hand came up to her shoulder, rubbing soft circles across the fabric of her shirt. “I’m sorry, y/n. That must be difficult for you. Especially since you’re technically still broken up…” 

“That’s the thing,” y/n almost wailed. “I’m not sure we are…” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean coital events have taken place in his bedroom last night,” she told her in a whisper and upon seeing the wide-eyed, jaw-slacked expression on JJ’s face, she couldn’t help but chuckle through the tears. “What do I do, Jayj?” 

JJ inhaled with teeth clenched, making it sound more like a hiss. “All you can do is talk this out with him, see what he wants. The loss of Emily has been hard on all of us, but especially Spencer. He’s gonna need your support to get through this.” 

With a nod and a new-found confidence, y/n went back home. She was determined to talk to Spencer about what had transpired between them. What she didn’t take into account was that that conversation was going to have to wait. Spencer was called on cases every single day, sometimes for days on end. And even when he returned, there was no time for them to talk about it. 

And five months later, Emily suddenly came back from the dead. 

The team was being questioned by the Senate Committee for their retaliatory actions in the wake of Emily’s loss. In their search for Declan Doyle, they found out that Emily’s death had been staged and that she was very well alive. Only y/n didn’t find out about it until Spencer returned from the case and the hearing, knocking on y/n’s door. 

“Hi,” she greeted with a smile when she opened the door for him. 

Instead of coming inside, Spencer stayed put on the threshold, confusing y/n to the fullest. Her heart beat faster at his actions – or lack thereof. 

“Spence?” 

“She’s back,” he whispered, his eyes rather absent. 

“What?” Her tone of voice matched his.

His eyes flicked up to hers and that was when she saw it. The uncertainty, the confusion. For a genius with an IQ of 187, this was something he just couldn’t wrap his head around. It was clear from the way he was looking at the woman he trusted with his entire heart, the one he loved more than anything, that he suddenly wasn’t sure of anything at all. 

“Emily’s back… She-she’s alive…” 

Y/N cautiously reached for his hand and pulled him inside. Shutting the door  behind them, she guided the dazed genius towards the couch where they sat down. Y/N encouraged him to tell everything, to not leave any detail out. And he did. 

Every word that came out of his mouth confused y/n, though from what she knew about the Ian Doyle case, she figured it would have been the best plan to keep her safe. 

“JJ knew,” Spencer muttered. 

Y/N’s eyes widened. She had cried in JJ’s office about grieving for Emily, about Spencer crying on her shoulder for ten weeks straight and she didn’t so much as budge. JJ was one of her best friends. 

Not wanting to bother Spencer with her thoughts, she allowed him to unload all of his on her. The two of them talked about everything concerning the case, ending up falling asleep on the couch when they decided to watch a movie together. 

Y/N sat with the feeling of anger and disappointment for a couple of days while Spencer was in Oklahoma with the team, working on a case together. She took the time to think about what to say to JJ, but all she could come up with were accusations and words laced with poison. 

When Spencer called her that they had landed and that he was going to finish up his report before coming over, y/n decided to pay a visit to the BAU. There was one particular blonde she needed to give a piece of mind to. 

“You knew?!” y/n nearly yelled at the top of her lungs as she burst into JJ’s office. 

None of the team members had even seen her walk in until they heard her voice. She hadn’t even bothered saying hi to any of them. She had one goal in mind and she wasn’t going to take any distractions to keep her from achieving that goal. 

“Y/N…” JJ mumbled, hoping to calm her down. 

But y/n cut her off quickly. “No, don’t you “y/n” me! You knew all this time and when I came crying to you, you didn’t even have the decency to tell me!” 

“Y/N, I couldn’t tell anyone.” 

Y/N’s eyebrow rose. “You couldn’t, or you wouldn’t?” 

“I couldn’t.” 

The answer she was given didn’t satisfy her and it didn’t calm her down, either. “Probably because Spencer didn’t come crying to you for ten weeks straight! Probably because you didn’t have to pry the vials of dilaudid out of his hands!” 

“Y/N!” Spencer’s voice came in between. She looked up to see him standing at the bottom of the stairs. “It’s okay.” He tried to reassure her, but failed completely. 

“No, Spence, it’s not okay.” 

“I’m sorry, y/n. I really am.” 

The woman glanced from Spencer to JJ and back before turning to JJ and scoffing. “Yeah, sure.” There was a bite to her words that shred JJ’s heart into pieces. She hated having two of her best friends mad at her. 

Y/N turned on her heel and left the blonde’s office, finding her way back to Spencer. Grabbing her hand in his, he led her towards the hallway where they could talk in silence without any prying ears or eyes. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, entwining her fingers with his. 

Spencer let out a chuckle. “I should be asking you.” 

“I’m fine,” she rolled her eyes with a bemused smile on her face. “Just needed to get that off my chest… I really hate how she just listened to me cry about you and about Emily, all while knowing what really happened.” 

Shrugging, Spencer shook his head. “They didn’t have a choice. It was for Emily’s safety…” 

“You’re okay with the fact she lied?” She asked, stepping a little closer towards him, the tips of their toes touching. 

“No, but I get why they did it. And besides… Shouldn’t I be glad Emily is still alive?” he asked, looking down at their feet. “And that her death brought us back together?” 

His eyes met hers again with that wonderful glint he usually had when he looked at her. It sent a blissful spark through her chest. One she had missed. Paired with the most gentle, most beautiful smile, it made y/n weak in the knees. 

“Mmh,” y/n hummed, her lips curving upwards. “I guess I should be happy about that.” 

Spencer let go of her hands and instead brought his up to her cheeks, cupping them gently as he tilted her face to properly look her in the eyes. “I love you. I have and always will.” 

Before y/n could even reciprocate the feeling, he had already pressed his lips to hers in a sweet kiss. Flutters went through y/n’s entire body at the sensation of his kiss. She was still in love with this man, she didn’t think she ever stopped. 

“I love you, too. – I am still mad at JJ though.” 

Spencer chuckled. “You ripping JJ a new one will forever be one of the sexiest things I have ever witnessed,” he nearly grumbled. Something flashed in his eyes, too. Something she had seen before. Multiple times. “As for your anger and frustration, I might know a good solution.” 

It was safe to say the couple arrived at Rossi’s for dinner very late. Spencer hadn’t even mentioned it until they were cuddled up in bed, sticky and sweaty from previous activities. After a quick shower, the couple headed down to Rossi’s where the rest of the team was watching him cook. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Spencer apologized when they walked into the kitchen with Morgan, who had come to open the door for them. 

“Yeah. And that’s why I cook alone,” Rossi bit back before turning back to his dish. 

“So, when do we get to drink the wine?” Emily asked the important question. 

“Almost there,” said Rossi as he put his utensils down. “We start at the beginning. You eat what you cook, I’ll supervise, but we’re gonna do this all together, just like a family.” 

Spencer looked down at y/n at the word ‘family’ with that proud, careful smile on his face. He was glad that she was a part of that family again. 

“Now?” JJ then questioned, lifting up her wineglass. 

Winking at her, Rossi nodded his head. “Now.” 

The eight of them raised their wineglasses, clinking them together while a chorus of ‘salud’ rang through the air. After a sip of wine, Penelope turned to the late-comers with a sparkle in her eyes. 

“Soooo…” she started, dragging down the ‘o’. “Are you two…” She repeated her question from a couple months back when y/n visited the BAU post-coitus. 

This time around, Spencer and y/n glanced at each other, the both of them certain of their answer this time. Y/N nodded her head in answer. “Yeah, we are.” 

“We just needed to take some time,” Spencer declared before leaning down and chastly kissing her amidst a rumble of cheers from his coworkers. 

Through all the terrible and the hopeless, Spencer and y/n had found each other again. They had been given a second chance to get it right. 

This time around, he’ll never give her away again. 

He had already made that mistake once. 

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[spirkkock]

Queer Text/Subtext in Shallow Grave (1994)

CW: BLOOD, STABBING, MURDER, NON-SEXUAL NUDITY, DRUG USE

I guess I wrote a rough essay... about the queer subtext in Shallow Grave... Here... have the rough draft if you'd like...

Overt references to queerness:

When we look at contemporary movies, we often have a knee-jerk reaction to dismiss any “funny” references to queerness or sexuality to be taken as jokes and nothing further than that.  Unfortunately, this has become all too common, and does a disservice to the films we watch. So I will be taking every moment of referenced or implied queerness as serious, even if it is delivered in a humorous way. Especially because this movie is not meant to be a comedy (despite some humorous moments).

Furthermore, references to queerness in movies should be taken seriously because they establish not only the existence of queerness (in universe, as one might say), but can also demonstrate the character’s attitudes towards queerness.  Its important to notice that at no point in this movie are any references to queerness played for a laugh – they might be humorous, but we are not meant to laugh at the character for being queer, which indicates that queerness is taken seriously within the universe of the movie (or at least between the characters).

The first overt reference to queerness is when Juliet asks an interviewee if he is having an affair with a man or a woman and the man is not given screen time to answer. This same man bursts into tears after Alex, a man, says, “When did anyone last say to you these exact words, ‘you are the sunshine of my life’?” (this is a reference to the Stevie Wonder song of the same name). While it is technically (according to the script) said by Alex to a different interviewee, the arrangement of the shots does not indicate that, as it cuts directly from Alex asking the question to the man crying. This could imply a number of things.

The second overt reference to queerness comes at the charity ball, where a Scotsman says, “ladies and gentlemen, and those of you who are neither or both,” which is then met with a drumroll. Alex immediately responds, offended, “where did they dig him up?” implying that Alex finds the joke to be outdated and, perhaps, distasteful.

The third overt reference is when Alex dresses in drag. He also appears in the same scene, on the tape recording wearing some rather flamboyant costumes.  The fact that Alex is in drag is not addressed by any of the other characters, nor by Alex, indicates that this is either a usual occurrence, or, for some reason, entirely unremarkable to the characters.  Specifically, it is interesting that David does not comment on it, as he walks into the scene unsuspecting.

The fourth, and final, overt reference to queerness is when, upon being told of Juliet and David’s relationship, Alex says to Juliet, “I’d do exactly the same thing except I don’t think I’m his type.” If the line is interpreted sarcastically (which I think most viewers will) then we can assume that he is jealous of David for being with Juliet. If it is interpreted as earnest, then we can assume that he is jealous of Juliet for being with David. It also could be an ambiguous combination of both.

Queer Subtext:

Now let us dig into the subtext, which I actually find to be much juicier....

The Squash Scene and the Car

Directly after the interviews have concluded, we are given a scene which helps frame the relationship between the three characters as one built on dynamics of domination and submission and gives us a baseline to understand each of the character’s roles within this dynamic. This scene takes place on the Squash court.

There is a deviation here between the script and the film, as several lines have been cut, but I will include them as they add some context to the scene.

In the above text, Alex indicates that he sees this game of squash as a struggle for dominance. In this case, the game between Alex and David is won by Alex, who then, despite having called David a “bad loser,” demonstrates that he is a sore winner when he gloats over David by saying, “defeat, defeat, defeat – sporting, personal, financial, professional, sexual, and everything.”

David is clearly annoyed by this and storms off. This scene sets up the ongoing power dynamic between Alex and David in which Alex is the dominant one in the relationship. It also is the first time that we see David being emasculated by Alex, which will continue occurring for the first half of the movie.

Immediately after David leaves the court, Juliet takes his place to play a match against Alex.  In this scene she is wearing a rather masculine outfit which is similar to that of the two male characters. She also sports short hair throughout the movie, but this is the scene in which she appears the most “boyish.”  When she enters the court to play, Alex begins to make the same statement (“Did you know squash is-”) that he made (in the script) earlier, to David. Thus he is using this exercise as a way to exert dominance, not only over David, his male sexual rival, but also over Juliet, thus implying that she is on equal footing – therefore also a sexual rival. However, Juliet cuts him off and tells him, “Alex, just serve.”

The action of cutting off Alex denies him domination in that moment, thus establishing that the two of them are on much more equal footing, or possibly that Juliet is in fact the dominant one between the two of them.  This scene serves to establish that typical gendered dynamics are somewhat blurred between these three individuals, and that David, instead of Juliet, takes on the most feminine/passive role in the group.

The next scene once again highlights the complicated gender and power dynamics within the group.  Juliet drives the car (masculine) while Alex and David bicker with one another from the back seat and passenger seat, respectively.

In this scene, addressing Alex’s win, David says, “Victory is the same as defeat – it’s giving into destructive competitive urges,” which distances him from competition, and could be interpreted as him rejecting the masculine urge to dominate.  Alex, in return, emasculates him by belittling his reliance on a “discussion group,” (implied to be therapy). During this scene, Alex and David are looking at one another, however, the rear-view mirror blocks both of their eyes. This symbolizes their unwillingness to see “eye-to-eye and perhaps a certain level of repression between the two of them.  Also in this scene, Juliet physically dominates Alex by elbowing him in the chest, and attempts to emasculate him verbally by implying that a woman that he is interested in hates him. She does this specifically in response to Alex’s emasculation of David, thus establishing that while Alex might be dominant over David, she is dominant over him.  During this exchange, however, in her attempt to protect David from Alex, David is further emasculated because he relies on someone else to defend him.

Discovering the Body / Three Friends, Three Bodies

When the trio discovers Hugo’s body we see some more of this interesting dynamic.

David stands by shocked while Alex ransacks the room searching for paraphernalia, while Juliet (the doctor among them) attends to the body.

Hugo’s nude corpse in this scene represents male vulnerability. He is prone and exposed on the bed, having overdosed on heroin, and can do nothing while his privacy is violated (by the dominant, Alex).  The injection of drugs into the body, in this case, could also be said to symbolize emasculation - the breaking of the body barrier through penetration of a syringe (phallus). This exemplifies a significant cultural fear at the time – death of the male body via penetration, which had become a major concern due to the HIV/AIDS epidemic. (If I was writing this essay for real, this is where I would insert articles that demonstrate horror’s preoccupation with AIDS and gay stuff during the 80s and 90s, but this is just for fun)

David, of course, is enamored by this display of the fragility of the male body. I would suggest that he identifies with Hugo’s vulnerability in death, and that the treatment of Hugo’s body by Alex and Juliet mirrors the way that they treat David. While Alex takes advantage of Hugo’s vulnerability in death by violating his privacy (thus dominating it), Juliet emasculates Hugo’s corpse by tending to it.  In one shot, we also see Juliet’s fingers dangerously close to penetrating Hugo’s mouth.

We can also expand upon this by recognizing that the two male characters that are pursuing Hugo and the trio in search of the money, are parallels to Juliet and David.  The two men are able to dominate Juliet and Alex through violence, only then to be killed by David. Thus, the three bodies that the trio end up burying are parallels to the trio themselves.

David Overcomes Emasculation, Alex Becomes Emasculated.

Alex’s emasculation of David continues throughout the first half of the movie, culminating in David being forced to dismember Hugo’s body (the very body that he identifies with).  When this occurs, he becomes the violator/aggressor/dominator.

This occurrence proceeds the change in the group dynamic. Around the midpoint of the movie (during the charity ball) we see David transition into a dominant role in the trio, while Alex becomes submissive.

This is demonstrated first by Juliet dominating Alex while they dance. Alex falls to the floor, drunk, and Juliet takes that moment to step on Alex’s mouth, forcing him to lick the bottom of her shoe.  He then willingly kisses her ankle, meeting her eye contact submissively. It is made clear through his facial expressions and laughter, that he finds joy in this act, thus embracing the emasculation (whereas David had always responded poorly, rejecting it).

Alex then attempts to re-exert control over David by forcing him to toast when he doesn’t want to. David eventually concedes after Alex yells at him, demanding that he toast to “love and happiness forever.”  (Alex also humiliates and emasculates Cameron in this scene).

David finally exerts control when Brian McKenly (a man keen on pursuing Juliet) interrupts their conversation. David responds by standing on level with Brian and stating, “If you want to talk to my girlfriend, you talk to me first. If you want to dance with her, you apply in writing three weeks in advance or you end up inside of a fucking bin bag. You didn’t apply – so you don’t dance!”

While David shrinks a bit afterwards, admitting that he found the interaction stressful, both Juliet and Alex embrace him, in high spirits (one might say… aroused…). Alex exclaims, “He [David] was really good – fucking bin bag – I really liked that. You really explored your maleness to the full there! You were magnificent.” This statement indicates that Alex, who has rarely had an encouraging word for David over the course of the movie, is invigorated upon seeing that David has stepped into a dominant role, exerting his masculinity onto others. Immediately following this, Alex is assaulted in the bathroom by Cameron (who he had emasculated twice prior) and two other men, who beat him quite badly, thus emasculating Alex.

The following day, Alex’s emasculation is made complete when he dresses in drag and spends the day in debauchery with Juliet. The framing of his and Juliet’s bodies during this scene is also worth noting, as they are often visually indistinguishable from one another – with Alex being noticeably more feminine than Juliet in several shots due to his makeup, jewelry, dress, and rather delicate shoulders.

(Notably, during the entirety of the ball scene and much of the drag/video scene, Alex is often pictured smoking a cigar instead of his usual cigarette, which could be said to stand in for a phallus.)

From this point on, David is almost always dominant over Alex. (One notable exception is one moment where Alex leans in close to David during dinner and orders, “now swallow,” while making very intense eye contact. David regains control by reminding Alex that David was the one who dismembered Hugo’s body.)

After this point it is clear that David is undergoing some extreme psychological stress, and has become paranoid and aggressive.  His shift in demeanor is most clearly symbolized by this shot, where he calls out of work so that he can begin making plans to protect the cash.

The Wickerman

During one scene, an injured Alex lays on the couch and watches the final scene of The Wickerman (1973). 

The Wickerman tells the tale of a conservative Christian police officer who goes to a Scottish isle to investigate the disappearance of a girl, only to discover that the locals are practicing a form of paganism that involves human sacrifice. The police officer discovers that he is in fact the sacrifice.  It is implied that he is the sacrifice because he is a virgin and a heterosexual, and he is unwilling to have sex with Christopher Lee’s character.  Christopher Lee was most well known at the time for playing the lead in Dracula (1958) – another movie with extremely well documented queer subtext. The audience of The Wickerman would have been aware of this.

During this scene, the drumbeats of the pagan ritual, where the police officer is being marched to his execution/sacrifice, synchronizes with David’s steps overhead, a sound that the characters and the audience come to associate with surveillance and dread.

Honestly this scene has me a bit stumped. Who does Alex identify with in this situation? The heterosexual victim? – is the ending subverted because his submission culminates in… the penetration of Alex's body… thus making him queer? Idk it's been a long day.

Surveillance

During the second half of the movie, David moves into the Attic and rarely comes down when his housemates are home.  He is protecting the money, both from his housemates and from the men who eventually come looking for it. While Alex and Juliet are brutalized by the men, David is the one who has set a trap for them, and is able to kill them. He also leads the trio to dispose of the bodies, and drives the van (whereas Alex had driven the van the first time they disposed of the bodies, when he had been the dominant one in the relationship).

During his time in the attic, David drills holes in the ceiling so that he can spy on his housemates. He is literally in a dominant position over them, looking down on them while they go about their daily tasks. In one scene, he spies on Alex and Juliet while they are sleeping. In this scene, he is shown first to be watching Alex. David is also in a state of undress that we have not seen before, implying a certain sensuality to the observation. We do not get to see Alex in a state of undress, but the scene finishes with Alex putting his shoes on, the camera looking down from above, implying David’s Point of view, and that he had watched the whole time. After Alex leaves, David moves to watch Juliet, in a scene that is much longer and more explicitly inappropriate and sexualized, especially because we come to understand that David’s temporary attic bed is located directly over her bed. However, before she begins undressing, he looks away and holds his head in his hands.

This scene simultaneously offers us a leveling effect between the two objects of David’s gaze (Alex and Juliet), while simultaneously prioritizing the heterosexual coupling. However, the implication that there is shame associated with the heterosexual gaze, complicates the situation.

Penetration with the Drill (Phallus)

When Alex goes into the attic to look for the money (and finds it in the water tank), he climbs back down the ladder only to be confronted by David, who is holding a drill (phallus) as a weapon.  Alex’s hands are wet from the water, and he frantically wipes them on the seat of his pants, behind his back, visually placing his hands as a barrier to his anus. The Drill makes contact with Alex's head and breaks the skin in an act of penetration (the body barrier is broken). This is the first scene in which David directly engages in domination (and penetration) of Alex.

David’s Glasses and Alex’s Photo

Lenses, mirrors, and portals/doorways are deeply significant visual aids in this movie, but I want to highlight the one that stood out to me the most. When Juliet and David have (implied) sex, at which point they solidify their status as a couple, David removes his glasses, and places them on Juliet’s bedside table.  Underneath the glasses is a photo of Alex in costume, a cigar in his mouth, framed through the lens of the glasses.  The photo was taken on the day in which we see Alex at his most feminine, at a point where he had been thoroughly emasculated (beaten in a bathroom by a man that he had emasculated multiple times). The framing of the photo, through the lens of David’s glasses implies that this is how David sees Alex – costumed, emasculated, and with a phallus in his mouth.

This photo is also shown once more in the film; David holds the photo of Alex as he lies in his attic bed, and he pins it above his head so he can look at it. The scene cuts to Alex, also in bed, who then gets up. It once again cuts back to David, who also gets up, and we see that Juliet lies asleep next to him. This follows a pattern of shots that we’ve seen before in the film (see the Surveillance section), where we see David watching Alex in what could be interpreted as a sexual or romantic way, before the camera reveals Juliet and lingers significantly. The implication is that whatever there is between David and Alex always gives way to the relationship between David and Juliet.

Returning to the glasses - the final time that we see them is during the climax of the movie. The three characters are struggling against one another, and David’s head is forced into the refrigerator so that Alex can try and smash him with the door.  He manages to throw Alex off, but not before his glasses are caught on the shelf of the refrigerator, thus knocking them off his face.  Having David’s glasses be knocked off would not typically be significant in a fight scene such as this, however the camera goes out of its way to linger on this shot, indicating that the symbolism here is important.  The other time that we have seen David remove his glasses has been before he has (implied) sex with Juliet. In this case, the removal of the glasses occurs just before David pins Alex in his final act of domination, which then culminates in the ultimate symbolic act of sexual penetration – David stabbing Alex with a knife (phallus).

NOTE: David is also pictured without glasses at the beginning of the film, where he is lying on his back, and halfway through the film, after he has dismembered Hugo in a symbolic act of violence against his own vulnerability.  In the first scene we hear his monologue; “I’m not ashamed, I’ve known love, I’ve known rejection. I’m not afraid to declare my feelings. Take trust for instance, or friendship. These are the important things in life. These are the things that matter, that help you on your way. If you can’t trust your friends well, then what then? What then? This could have been any city, but all the same.” It is unclear until the end, but it seems that the first time that we see David, right at the beginning, we are actually seeing him postmortem in the morgue. Meaning that the monologue is a lament on his life... (You're not ashamed of what, David? Being a bit gay, perhaps?)

Penetration with the Knife (Phallus)

At the climax of the movie, after David’s glasses have been removed, we arrive at David’s final act of domination over Alex.  David pins Alex to the floor by sitting on his stomach, with Alex’s legs pinned underneath his knees in a position that could be interpreted as sexual.  He then holds Alex by the throat, and stabs him in the shoulder, slicing clean through and penetrating the floor.  The act of stabbing (penetrating) a victim with a knife (phallus) is one often noted in analysis of horror films, as having sexual implications (again – I’d find some article about it here if I was a serious writer lol).

Before David can stab Alex again with a second knife, David is stabbed with a knife through the throat from behind by Juliet.  Thus Juliet, who has been a dominant character throughout the movie, is symbolically penetrating David with a phallus. Furthermore, the location of the stabbing in the throat and from behind, implies that David has now suffered, once again, an emasculation, just as he had just preformed on Alex.

David collapses and dies, just as Hugo did, from emasculation through the body barrier being broken from penetration. Thus, David’s identification with Hugo’s corpse and the vulnerability that it represented, is complete in this moment.

Juliet then kneels over Alex, taking up the same position that David had just occupied, and places her hand on the knife in Alex’s shoulder, pressing on it, thus taking David’s place as the one to dominate Alex.  She then removes her shoe, and in an act that mirrors the scene from the charity ball in which she dominated Alex by having him lick her shoe/foot, she uses her shoe to hit the knife three times, driving it deeper into his shoulder, further penetrating him.  Thus, in her final interaction with both David, and Alex, she has penetrated them.

As she puts her shoe back on, we can see inside of the refrigerator, where we once again see David’s glasses, recalling once again that this scene is coded as sexual in nature through the movie's visual language.

As the movie closes, we discover that Alex is alive (probably), and that he has hidden the money underneath the floorboard. In the ultimate irony of the movie, the character that spent the second half of the movie being coded as the submissive (homosexual receiving) partner, has come out on top, despite the other two character’s attempt to dominate (and kill) him.

Uhhh the credits roll, and they're all shown as they were in the first scene of the movie, smiling, laughing, and the love song "Happy Heart" plays...

[notbirdnorplane]

- - continued from x with @bloodyfixation --

Izuku's face was a deadpan expression of exasperation as he tried to patch his ally up. What was once a face vibrant with passion had wilted, paling with lack of sleep and overwork. Even the green of his hair had become a morose brackish hue. As she removed her hand, he pressed his down instead. It was warm, like pudding that'd been left in the sun too long. The sight of it didn't phase him; he'd seen enough to desensitize any hesitance he had to the deep red liquid.

"You don't regen like me, Himiko." He sighed, working with his med pack to bandage her up. "You bleed out and die if they put too many holes in you. Can't lose you just yet." He'd need to put stitches in this once they were back to base, and another blood transfusion, likely his own. Gauze and cotton would keep her in the land of the living until then. "......but thank you." She did this for them, their friends and allies, and the mission. If it'd been merely for her own sake, maybe he'd have scolded her more thoroughly. How could he do that while she was sacrificing for his goals and aspirations?

"What did he know?" Best to keep the mind busy while working. Having Himiko report would keep his train of thoughts active and hers off the pain. "Anything sensitive?"

[thedarkestrivernymph]

Monster

Heian period!Sukuna x fem!Reader

warnings: heavy angst, blood, gore, misogynistic thinking

©Copyright -2024-thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

You would do anything.

You're begging, crying, pleading, doing everything in your power to showcase your genuine obedience, to prove yourself to be a truly spineless bundle of nerves, cowering at his feet. Hoping and praying he will relent that he isn't such a grotesque monster, that he just isn't a hollow black hole consuming everything only to spit it out foul and rotten.

But he is. And you know that he is.

That's why your begging wasn't enough, nothing was, nor ever would be enough for him, because human emotions were fickle, to be played and abused to his own enjoyment.

So he did what he did best, being a monster.

Flicking his wrist he sealed the fate of the only thing dear to you, ripping it all away from you in just one nanosecond.

He didn't even allow screams to ripple from her throat, as he slashed her fragile body in half, letting crimson paint your lap, soaking your nightgown in this ugly despicable red that painted you like a warning.

A warning.

That was what this was.

He had ended the life of the crying and screaming little bundle of joy, so oblivious to everything, innocent with big pooling eyes that could have reflected the stars, as a warning.

Sukuna had ended your daughter's life to prove a point.

To warn you to bear him a boy or your limps were the next to be snapped in half, with your gaze as bleary as hers.

Silence engulfed you, a painful agonizing one.

The room already reeked of blood—of that metallic note, and sweat, because just hours prior, you were in the process of pushing her out of your womb, eager to already welcome your little darling into the world, you were too blinded by your own eagerness to embrace her, that you failed to see the truth.

He didn't even allow her to suckle on your breast, to taste her first meal out of the safe heaven that was your belly, to gaze upon you with heavy eyelids and sticky lashes, all weary and exhausted, coming to find rest against your soothing heartbeat.

Her skin was still an odd colour, bright and vivid, with her head shaped like a cone, alien-like and yet so familiar, he hadn't even allowed her to adjust to her new life, hadn't allowed her anything.

He robbed your daughter of everything there could be to be robbed of, her first taste of milk, of water, of food, her first word, first time walking, first time feeling the sun graze her features, first time making friends, first love, first heartbreak, first time experiencing a relationship, marriage, perhaps even her first time of being a mother herself— and all you could do was only cower and mourn, fat tears running down your face, sweat-covered, cradling what remained of her.

Sukuna had robbed her, he robbed her and you had been powerless to go against him.

What a fool you had been to be excited, to feel joy, fantasizing about being a happy family, blissfully ignorant about the fact that he was a lunatic.

You had failed her.

All you could do was regret ever allowing her to escape the safety of your womb. You should have kept her inside, safe, away from the monster hovering above you, his sheer size casting a shadow on the little heap of misery you were on the floor.

“That will teach you.” Sukuna exclaimed, as if it was your fault and he was in the right. Well truth be told it was, it was your fault for lying to yourself that he wouldn't be cruel to you, or to his own flesh and blood. It was your fault for ever seeing him as a man instead of the abomination he was, it was your fault.

“We will try again. This time I know you won't disappoint me.” he uttered, so devoid of remorse, of any ounce of guilt, as if he had a clean conscious. All you felt emitting from him was endless coldness, an icy flood threatening to drown you beneath its strength. He had swallowed you whole, and allowed you to wallow in an illusion, all up until this point, he took off the mask off—only he never wore a façade, you were just too blinded by your own delusions to take notice of his true nature.

He didn't even spare you another glance, neither caring for the limp body of his daughter in your arms, her body sliced clean in two— nor the state you were in, exhausted, tired and just having witnessed something so soul-crushing, fom which you knew you could never recover from.

He just didn't care, you were only a body, a means to an end, another piece of meat that would grant him his wish for a male heir—and if you didn't he would just discard of you like you were nothing but a lamb to be slaughtered.

So it wasn't unsurprising, nevertheless did it only plunge the knife deeper and twist it as he spun on his sole, turning away, leaving you there all by yourself, letting maids rush in through the door, causing the world around you to halt and fall into an inescapable endless silence as your gaze focused solely on him.

They were all fussing over you, one more worried than the other but all you could do was blankly stare at his back that was becoming smaller and smaller as he further moved away, descended away from the crime he just committed, only if it was the King of Curses, it wasn't a crime, but god-given and to be accepted, it was the truth he would force down everybody's throats.

And in that exact moment that's when you felt it for the first time.

Such a raging fire clawing up your insides, squeezing your heart, that you might have recoiled from the intensity in any other situation, but not in this moment, no. You embraced the flames, let the thirst for revenge, for vengeance, swallow you whole and hopefully when you burned enough, it would spit you out as a changed woman, ready to gift Sukuna his heir he desired so dearly, only to meet death in the hands of his own flesh and blood.

Because you would do anything for your little bundle of joy.

You would do anything.

[pseudovillain]

Bets on Ace Markey, the Ultimate Jockey, execution lets Go:

Deadly Carousel

Dragged by the neck by horses

Trampled by horses (classic, terrifying)

Torn apart by horses from different directions.

Horsemen of the apocalypse reference

Eaten by horses

Dragged to hell

Basically Emma Margorobi Super Danganronpa Another 2 execution but with Horses instead of a witch broom.

Tries to escape execution but is chased by Mono TV using a horse

Treated like an abused horse

Something with whips

Two or more options of this list

[yandereunsolved]

Fool Me Once - ,, you being James successor

cw(s): murder, drugging, obsessiveness, asphyxiation, thoughts/acts of sh

☾ James March who saw your aura in the color of gray and was immediately fascinated by your presence in his hotel. He's seen a handful of colors, even black— but this gray was something new. You are like a lost lamb that just needs his guidance. He only wishes to bring out your full potential. His hand aches to hold your own, just so he has a chance to feel your living pulse.

☾ Who watches you around the hotel. He purposely allows the ghosts to terrorize you to see how well you hold up. He won't allow them to kill you but you may leave with a few scars if you aren't skilled enough.

☾ Who invited you to a private dinner before you leave. He may or may not have definitely drugged so the food so you are a little loopy. What? He just needs to make sure that you listen to his message. He talks with you for hours and 'convinces' you to stay, or at least come back if you have other challenges responsibilities.

☾ Who demands that you eat every meal with him. He needs to make sure that you are eating correctly to ensure top performance. He really just wants to spend more time with you. He needs you to begin craving his attention and affection. It makes the entire process so much easier.

☾ Who guides you into picking out victims. He shows you the ropes, both figuratively and literally. Sometimes he tells you that he needs you to act with him. You'll both 'act' as if you are married to seduce couples and lost lambs into death. No one is allowed to touch you except him. If they try their death will come much quicker.

☾ Who asks you to pick out your favorite weapon. He goes into great detail about each one. He watches your face contort into furrowed contemplation. He feels himself growing fonder of your company. He can't wait to allow you a private torture chamber of your own, one day. Your willingness to please him only being another thing that intrigues him.

☾ Who asks the most intimate questions about you. He only wants to learn more about his protégé, and who he has to kill to make you his. Are you a virgin? How many exes do you have? What are your favorite positions? How much do you fancy killing people? What are your special interests? Are you attracted to men? What kind of men are you attracted to?

☾ Who nearly dies a second death when he sees your Devils Night costume. You dressed up as him! You even used make-up to recreate his neck slit. He wants to kill you right there. You would look so perfect to eternally mimic him.

☾ Who makes you watch his killings and take notes. It doesn't matter how he is killing them. He'll make you watch. If you close your eyes, he'll make you open them. He'll grab your chin and tilt it to look straight into your eyes. He'll make you drink the blood of his victims— bathe in it. It's like an aphrodisiac for him.

☾ Who wants you to own his hotel as the living owner. He doesn't want his hotel in danger of being destroyed or changed in a drastic way. He wants you owning his hotel as a symbolic gesture. A sign of his trust for you.

☾ Who chokes you and sloppily makes out with you after you kill your first person. He traps you against the wall and nearly makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. He promises you more for each person you kill.

☾ Who makes you sleep in room sixty-four. You aren't allowed any other room. That is the only room you are allowed to stay in. So what if he is watching you sleep? So what if he is watching you during your 'alone' time? So what? You are his protégé after all."

☾ Who makes that maid of his— Miss Evers is it? make sure all of your linens are extra clean. You have nothing that is ever dirty. All of your messes are cleaned up, even before his own. Miss Evers is immensely, violently, extraordinarily jealous of you. She does her best to sabotage you behind her masters back. James has more than just a few words to her about that.

☾ Who insists you have a title of your own. He is The 10 Comandment killer. What is your trauma? How are you going to fuel it into your gruesome killings?

☾ Who fuels your worst thoughts. No, not the self depreciating ones or the ones that make you harm yourself... yet. Never bad to keep those thoughts in his back pocket for if you disobey him, or he needs to manipulate you. He fuels those thoughts that you immediately push away. He fuels your anger, your anguish, your pain towards people.

☾ Who will make you hurt yourself and watch if you ever try to leave him/disobey/displease him. He can do it himself, but your punishment will end a lot sooner if you just do it yourself... and sob so loud that he can't hear his own thoughts.

☾ Who gets you to shed all of your electronics when you are with him. He supposes you can have those horrid things, but not when he is around. His handsomely talented protégé cannot be distracted by some electronic drivel! He will not allow it. You cannot get off that phone? He'll make you. Break it. Kiss you until you can only focus on him.

☾ Who carves his initials into you so that people know you are his. He really, really wants to carve them into your neck... but he realizes that would probably, most definitely, kill you. He settles between two different places. You can either have him carve them into your inner arm or your thigh. Tattooing is boring. Scarring is fun.

☾ Who treats you both as his equal and below him simultaneously. He respects you but you are like a baby bird just learning to fly. His hummingbird. Just don't leave the nest too soon. You could fail flying and break your neck. That would be a pity.

☾ Who is adamant that you are very careful when it comes to killing. He cares in his own twisted way. He was caught, his failed successors were caught. He does not want you caught. He wants you to infinitely succeed. He wants you to have a moderately normal life.

☾ Who will hold you too hard or choke you for so long so that he leaves bruises. He tells you that he is teaching you how to resist these things. He would never fully poison you though. Drug, yes. Poison, no. Why no poison? He sees poison as very un-gentleman-like. Poison is reserved for your worst enemies, not your successor.

☾ Who will randomly trauma dump the worst things that happened to him. Those moments are fleeting and scarce. However, they do happen. That is his sign of an ultimate reverence to you. He bares the scars in his soul to you. If you press him on it or even joke about it his walls will be back up. He'll kill twice as many people as he usually does just to exterminate that pesky emotion of hurt from his heart.

☾ James Patrick March who will always be there when you fall. Who will slaughter those in the village so only he can give you warmth.