#I don't know what the succinct tag is for that

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb (FINAL PART)

PART ONE HERE

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What could possibly go wrong after all?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 15k (fuck, that's it, I'm physically incapable of writing something succinct)

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND ROUGH SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post.

Please do not mistake this for a love story. The reader clearly suffers from a serious level of emotional instability and the abuser takes advantage of this fragility to threaten and use her. This is NOT healthy and NOT romantic in any way and I obviously do NOT agree with this attitude in real life. This is just a FICTIONAL HISTORY and it is only in this context that something like this can be tolerated. The tags are all there however and if you do not feel comfortable reading something like this, there is no need to leave any derogatory comments. JUST DON'T READ IT.

To those who stay, enjoy reading!

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

In the previous chapter:

And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims. You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty holes. The knowledge that there is no way out of the room is painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders stretching almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here was if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

----

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your head tilts down discreetly. Submission. It’s instinctive, really. Your body knows what this man is capable of, remembers the brutal, bloody state his victims were found in. You don’t want that fate for yourself.

He hums at that, pleased with your pliant reaction - and you blush at the raw humiliation of feeling so inferior to someone else.

“So good, sweetie.”

He sighs ecstatically, pushing the two of you deep into the bathroom just enough to close the door, the click of the key locking it sounding purposefully loud. You feel the shape of an invisible hand holding your beating heart between its fingers, your breath coming in shallow huffs through your lips. He’s locked you in here, with him.

How did this happen? How did you, probably the only person who was actually taking this whole police alert about a serial killer on the loose seriously, end up here? How the hell is this possible, God?

Your phone vibrates from where it's on the floor and you jump in fright, the screen facing down doesn't allow you to see who's calling when you look at it. But it doesn't matter. You immediately look up at the man, see how he understands what you're going to do before it even happens; his ghostly face tilts toward the ceiling, an almost disappointed sigh sounding from beneath the mask.

"I praised you too soon, right?"

It turns out that if showing their fragile parts to a predator seeking mercy and lowering the head in submission is a natural primal instinct when there's seemingly no escape, then it's also a natural instinct to act immediately when a glimmer of hope and survival appears.

And your phone ringing is a glimmer of hope.

You dive to where it lies with your heart racing, desperate for the opportunity to warn someone of your situation and get help. But your fingers barely graze the object before a large hand grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head, holding you in place before you can reach it.

On your knees on the bathroom tile, you’re thrashing hysterically in his iron grip, ugly sobs of pain escaping your lips with each rough tug at the roots of your hair.

“No! Let me go, please! HELP!” You scream as loud as you can, hoping it’s enough to alert someone outside, even though the obnoxiously loud music downstairs limits your chances to almost zero. You barely register the heavy thud of the knife hitting the floor as you open your mouth to scream louder, your voice muffled by another heavy hand slamming into your mouth, the leather of his glove squeezing your lips and cheeks until they hurt.

He lifts you to your feet with just his grip on your hair, your scream of agony once again muffled by his gloved fingers. The man doesn't let you go even when he reaches the bathroom sink, where he practically throws you against the counter, your hip bones jarring sharply with the impact. You slip a little in pain, shaking hands gripping his wrist as you claw desperately to make him release your mouth, staring in horror at the shadowy figure behind your body.

Your heartbeat is roaring loudly in your ears as you cease the attack and stare at the dark, empty eyes of the mask in the mirror, his body against yours.

The indigo lighting makes his presence even more sinister, shadowing a tall, frightening silhouette looming over you like a mythological god of death, dressed all in black. Except, of course, for his bizarre mask with sunken, innocuous eyes, like black holes etched in an agonized expression, the mouth dark and open in an eternal silent scream. The material of the mask is so white that it contrasts exaggeratedly against the black background covering his body, even in the violet light of the bathroom. Over his head he wears a wide hood that frames his mask and gathers around the long line of his strong shoulders like an ominous shawl, followed below by a kind of ragged-looking tunic, long sleeves on each arm, a subtle tightening around his waist, deliberately highlighting the defined plane of his abdomen. Below his waist, the tunic continues flowing to his ankles, with an opening running the length of each leg clad in trousers - to allow ease of movement, you presume. He needs agility to stalk students and kill them mercilessly, after all. To finish off the somber look, he wears military boots on his feet, intricate lines of laces running the length of them.

"How about you and I play a little game?" He asks close to your ear, white mask poking the side of your face, empty eyes staring at your reflection in the mirror. You struggle to breathe between the gaps of his fingers on your face, your eyes growing moist as the desperate situation truly sinks in.

"A really fun little game called 'don't scream when I let go of your mouth and in return I won't decorate the floor with your entrails'. How does that sound?" The way he says it, casual and easy, rivals the cruel grip on your hair, or the way his fingers press into the flesh of your cheeks until you squeal in pain.

The smell of blood surrounds you again, the same metallic, damp smell you felt when you were near the dripping knife he had between his fingers, and your senses seem to be heightened by the adrenaline flooding your veins. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the smell is coming from him this time. From his clothes, you notice, as if the slimy stuff had been splattered across much of the shadowy fabric covering his body. And it was. You know it was.

Who was the victim tonight? Who was stabbed so brutally that their blood splattered like ketchup all over this monster’s clothes?

Would you suffer the same fate?

“I asked you a question, princess. Do you want to play with me or not?” He presses, a hint of impatience in his voice, the already crushing grip on your scalp tightening even more.

You nod as best you can at the restraint of his fingers in your hair and mouth, pretending you actually have some say in this, salty tears sliding down your waterline with the shaky movement.

“Good girl.”

He laughs close to your ear, a low, dark — but happy — tremor. He’s enjoying himself, basking in the satisfaction of your scared, teary expression. He’s insane.

“That’s it, love, isn’t it so much easier this way?” He purrs as he loosens his grip on your mouth, the back of his index finger massaging your cheek as you practically choke on the breath that vibrates too raggedly through your newly freed lips. He towers over you, watches you in the mirror with predatory focus - sees you struggle to keep yourself together, fresh tears dripping from your lower lashes, wetting the leather of the glove on his finger. “Mmm, you look so good like this, it makes me so fucking hard to see your tears fall for me.”

“Oh my God…” you choke, absolutely terrified at the man’s sickening sincerity, your eyes wide and wet, face to face with the singular reason for your nightmares. 

“Shh,” he takes a step closer to you, pinning you even tighter against the sink counter and his body, letting you feel the undeniable truth in his earlier statement — the thick tent in his pants digging into your lower back until you whimper out a sharp sound, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.”

You find yourself subtly wilting at the dangerous warning, though more out of sheer horror than subservience.

“A-are you going to kill me?” Your voice cracks at the end, scared and shrill; the sound of someone truly cornered — a little mouse caught in a cruel glue trap, just awaiting its inevitable end.

“Now, that wouldn't be fun, would it?” he pretends to ponder, his gloved fingertip drumming over your jaw now, down to your cheek, and you’re shaking so hard you think you might be shaking his body along with yours. “Oh no, I could never kill you. Hurt you? Yeah, maybe. But killing my little girl? That's a big nope to me.”

If he thought that would bring you any comfort, then he was sorely mistaken.

He grabs your face before you can properly react to his frightening words, his large, strong hand barely needing to exert much effort to do so, eclipsing your delicate features with his long fingers, the endless darkness of the glove contrasting with your skin. He squeezes your cheeks together until your lips purse into a fishy pout, forces your jaw up so you meet the blank stare of his mask in the mirror - and all you can do is cringe under his dangerous aura.

“Look at that, aren’t you the cutest little thing?”

You definitely don’t like the tone he uses, the easygoing, smug way he holds himself above you; as if he knows there’s absolutely nothing you can do to free yourself from his grasp, completely at his mercy. Chest thrusting into you, muscular thighs encasing your hips, hips pressed against your ass; keeping you in place. You try to claw at his wrist again, just to confirm the horrifying fact that no, he’s not going anywhere.

The grip on your cheeks loosens as he slides his hand to your throat, gloved fingers curling to rest over the hysterically pulsing vessels on either side, completely encircling the slender column of your neck with elongated digits like spider legs. He doesn’t apply any real pressure, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to. As he holds your gaze in the reflection with those cold, dark circles of his ghostly mask, the threat of his vast capacity for violence hangs as heavily as he does over your body.

He could rip you apart, right here and now. He could sink his sharp teeth into your neck like a dog would a chew toy, shaking your stuffed body between his jaws until only foam and patches remain.

The paralyzing fear is an increasingly real sensation in your chest, the cold curtain of numbness lifting on your skin and you swallow hard, your throat working under his fingers. Your heart pounds violently, so hard you can feel it in your ears, in your skull. Your eyes flutter in the mirror and your breath is just a broken whistle between your lips. He's pushing you straight into what will be a second episode in the same night, an unprecedented feat in your life - as fucked up as it has been so far.

"W-wait, please I-" You gasp, pulling at his grip messily, already feeling the spiral of panic wrapping around your thoughts like a vise, the claustrophobic noose that is the feeling of total inability to control yourself tightening around your throat.

"Cut that shit, little girl." Your tormentor breathes close to your ear, firm and authoritative, almost sullen as he stares into your terrified eyes in the mirror, his fingers on your throat squeezing slightly - just enough to make you feel it. "You're staying here with me, understand? It was cute the first time, but I don't want to hear about that shit now. I have much more interesting things to do with you than watch that pretty little head go somewhere I can't reach it. Yeah, I'm a selfish guy like that."

He finishes with a dry laugh and you don't know what's worse; his complete disrespect in describing your very real and very traumatic panic attack as something 'cute' or his incorrect assumption that you had a choice in this - that you could simply stop it from happening.

The grip on your throat is tighter now, your breathing becoming severely labored. His hand wraps around your throat and presses hard enough to make you struggle to breathe. You buck and push, running on pure instinct even though your efforts are restrained by his strength, the blood on his black robes spreading across your body like an artist’s brushstrokes in movement.

The notion that this man killed someone before coming to you is there once more, even more prominent now, pounding in your head like blows from a hammer.

“Relax, damn it, or I’ll make you.” He continues his unreasonable demand, squeezing his grip to press you against his chest until you feel every heated inch of him against your body, especially the disturbing way the thick line of his cock inevitably pushes and presses into your lower back with each sharp breath.

You want to scream at him and tell him that what he’s doing is the complete opposite of encouraging you to relax. But anxiety courses through your veins and your eyes close, spilling salty tears. You see grotesque shadows and demons you never thought you would see behind the darkness of your eyelids. It suffocates you, terrifies you, makes you tremble. You can’t move, you can’t escape, you can’t even open your eyes; you can only feel. Your heart is about to explode. You can’t hear anything. Your head hurts and your mind starts to shut down. That’s it, you’re falling again.

And then you feel your body shaking uncontrollably, something crawling under your skin like a lazy parasite. It’s not bad and that’s the first warning sign. Your temporarily inert mind, shut down for God knows how long, restarts with a slow trickle, your breathing becoming a little less hyperventilating and more...warm? However, you can’t force yourself to open your eyes yet, you can’t hear anything around you, you can’t even deduce what’s happening beyond the dark barrier of your closed eyelids. You feel strangely calmer, but filled to the brim with confused apprehension.

You shiver as the strange sensation comes on stronger, sticky molasses coursing through your veins, warming your belly to bring your mind back to reality.

Brought back....

When your eyes open, lethargic and sleepy, tears still blur your hazy vision until you can stare once more at the killer's ghostly mask.

“Welcome back, princess…” The tall man speaks and even hidden under the mask you know he’s smiling. His upper body is hunched over, wrapping your body in a sort of unwanted intimate cocoon. One of his arms is around your torso, keeping both of your arms firmly attached to your sides as if you were a Barbie doll, his other arm stretched down, beyond the visible limits of the mirror. You try to cast your eyes down to see where his hand is, a bad feeling in your chest, but your vision is fuzzy, swimming in dizziness and inconstancy. The threat of a second episode has drained the little strength that was left in your body.

You might even feel compelled to show gratitude for having escaped the oppressive spiral of a new crisis before it reached critical levels. Except something doesn’t feel right.

“W-what?” You ask in a thin voice, your head spinning with tiredness, your body kept upright only by the sink counter and the pressure the man exerts on your back. Feels wrong. You feel like you’re going to throw up at any moment. Your body is begging you to lie down and take a nap for an entire year. It’s a different kind of hysteria, you realize, like you’ve escaped one panic attack only to fall into another completely different one.

Heavy breaths rush from your mouth and your tongue feels sticky and dry as you try to swallow, squinting back into the mirror, trying to piece together the fragmented pieces of information in front of you to make sense of what’s happening.

He’s looking at you too. Even hidden beneath that mask, you feel his gaze burning into your reflection, drinking in the drunken confusion etched on your face, the fear — the shiver of unwanted pleasure that rips through your body like an invisible knife.

What’s happening?

You want to scream.

As you gaze up at him from beneath damp lashes, the burning sensation in your body seems to creep upon itself, gradually merging with the nerves in your belly as something warm and syrupy — needy — pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby. See how much relaxed you are now?” He purrs with lazy irony, savoring each syllable on his tongue like an addictive candy. “Of course you did, the baby just needed something different to focus that little head of her on.”

There’s a gentle but rhythmic swaying of the muscles along his arm, you notice with your eyes locked on the mirror, a disturbingly familiar movement — and a shiver of wet pleasure licks up your spine as you squint, a very instinctive, primal part of your brain finally breaking through the hazy fog to scream that it knows exactly where his hand is.

Your awareness of the world around you returns like a punch to the gut, painful and suffocating, as you feel the leather of his glove between your legs.

"N-no! No, please, I don't want to-" You stammer, tired and scared beyond belief, struggling to escape the man, but his grip around you is like a heavy chain, his arm still keeping yours locked tightly at your sides.

This man has somehow managed to rescue you from a traumatic encounter with your own demons, only to plunge you into a different kind of terror - one even more agonizing.

Your sobbed protests mean nothing in the face of the killer's sick desires, as he languidly slides two of his fingers in a V around your clit, up and down. A shiver runs through you, your thighs instinctively clenching around his hand, a reaction that in turn elicits an amused chuckle from the man.

You shake and beg louder as he continues to rub your pussy, his hand writhing inside the tiny shorts you wear under your costume skirt, ignoring your breathy sobs and whimpers as if you were just a cute, whiny puppy. You shiver, your inner walls clenching around nothing with each lick of his fingers around your clit, reacting against your will to his teasing touches.

A haze of fear and pleasure takes over your mind as you shake your head, struggling to breathe through your nose to keep from passing out. It all feels too much and yet not enough, your hands twitching nonstop where they’re held, your body shaking from head to toe. Your blood runs thick as you stare at him in the mirror, begging in a way. Trying to say anything, since your voice doesn’t even seem to work with the overwhelming wave of feelings coursing through you. Your lips just part, nothing but a wordless plea.

“Oh, poor girl, don’t struggle so much…just relax, I’ll take such good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything but staying there and being soft and pretty for me. Let me think of everything else.” He sings condescendingly, the elongated tip of the ghostly mask’s chin appearing in your line of vision as he rests his jaw on your shoulder, the material of the hood brushing against the side of your flushed face.

His scent is enveloping you like a chokehold now; rich, clotted blood, running red and still warm on his clothing — which is now permanently stained on your costume as well, to your horror. But beneath all that disturbing scent of wet iron, there are also notes of crackling, mossy sandalwood and something fresh, citrusy like lemons or bergamots.

If it weren’t for the blood trying so hard to overwhelm everything else, his scent would be pleasant, your clouded mind realizes, seductive even.

The sight before you is breathtaking, to say the least - and not in a pleasant way.

A pathetic, broken little girl is crying, her cheeks red and streaked with tears, her eyes drunk and her brows furrowed in anguish. On her body she wears a foolish Sailor Mars costume that barely covers her body, a stupid thing she didn't even want to wear in the first place, the fabric of the red skirt draped in front of her thighs swaying suggestively, right where the hand of the man behind her remains hidden. The man in question, a vicious killer highly wanted by the police, covers her almost completely with his tall frame and black robes - a stark contrast to the girl's almost childish outfit. The white mask on his face rests on her shoulder, his long arm caging her small body close to his, touching every part he can reach as he squeezes and caresses her as if he would die without it. It's almost romantic, in theory, but horrifying and frightening when you know what's really happening.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, refusing to look down and confirm what your nerves and body already know all too well is happening. Fear grips your throat so tightly that you shake like a leaf, tears streaming from your eyes as you feel his first finger delve inside you.

It should hurt. The rough material of the glove in direct contact with such an entirely sensitive part of your body should be uncomfortable, at the very least. But it isn’t. There’s something aiding your endeavor, your hindbrain adds as his finger sinks in all the way to the first knuckle with just a little pressure from his wrist. There’s something sticky and thick there along with his finger, messing with your folds with humiliating sounds — spit, probably.

“Please…stop—” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly you swear constellations explode in the darkness of your eyelids.

“You know,” he begins, ignoring your foolish plea, impatient as he pushes his finger the rest of the way into your trembling, clenching walls until you squeak out a sob, body tensing like a bow beneath his. “There’s a look on people’s faces that I meet. A hysterical, helpless look when they realize that this is the end for them. No matter how much they’ve resisted and fought, they all get that look when the time comes. It’s not exactly a look of begging for mercy. No, they’re usually past that point at this moment.” His chuckle is nothing short of disturbing near your ear, the arm around your waist rising so that he can grab a thick fistful of your hair between his fingers and squeeze until you cry out loudly at the sharp pain and open your eyes, obeying his silent demand to face him once more through the mirror.

“No, it’s not a plea for mercy, sweetie. It’s just a anguished conformity, you know? A part of them even wants to hold out longer, out of instinct I guess, but deep down they know it’s useless. They just know it’s over for them. And that’s when that look appears.”

Your breath hitches visibly as he slides a second finger alongside the first.

“It’s the same look you have now. That look of pure agony and submission on your face, all because you just know you can’t escape me...mmm,” He’s closer than ever, rubbing the mask on the side of your face, and all you can think is that he’s right. As much as your body tells you to run, you know there’s no way you can outrun him, he’s unfortunately more capable than you in every way that matters right now.

He presses himself even closer to your body, his voice slurred in your ear.

“You make me so fucking horny, baby.”

He’s not slow, much less gentle when he moves his fingers inside you. He fucks you with them seriously from the first few seconds, curling them each time he sinks back into your heat, your walls clenching around him, warring to adjust to the unexpected assault. Your cries of pain are interrupted by small involuntary moans and gasps every time he presses too deep inside you, finding a spot that makes you dizzy, held only by his painful grip on your hair. You bite your lip, struggling to keep the noises inside.

He makes a grunting sound, tongue clicking disapprovingly beneath his mask.

“None of that, princess. Let me hear those beautiful sounds. They’re there because of me, I cultivated them...they’re all mine.” Your head falls back on his shoulder as he suddenly moves his hand down your clavicle, long fingers pushing aside the fluffy purple lace of your costume to grip one of your breasts tightly. “You’re all mine.” Even over the fabric of your clothes, his grip on your breast is possessive, and you wish your arms would fight back when he starts dragging his palm across your nipple, prickling it until it becomes a sensitive little peak. But all you can do is lift your hands to rest them on the counter, your head still thrown back against his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, his thumb now rubbing against the nub of your nipple with small flicks that send a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. “I knew you’d be perfect. So pathetic to me, baby. You feel so good…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, a muffled sob escaping your lips as he pushes your body forward, making you arch into the counter, his larger body pressed against your back, his hands still glued to their respective places. He curls his fingers into your pussy, a small moan leaving you, and begins to pound against your back. He keeps you bent over as he thrusts his clothed cock between your ass cheeks, each rough thrust pushing another inch of your skirt up your hips.

“Spread your legs for me,” he pants next to your ear. When you tense and don’t comply immediately, the hand on your breast squeezes so hard it actually hurts. “Are you going to make me repeat myself, princess? Every second you make me wait, I get more impatient. Are you sure you want to see me impatient?”

You quickly part your legs, the action causing his fingers to dig deeper between your swollen walls with each hard thrust, wet sounds sounding too loud in the cramped bathroom. His hips move against your back in rough motions, grinding up and down, causing heat to spread throughout your body until your head is spinning, broken sounds leaving your lips. The gummy walls of your pussy contract around his fingers and he growls as he ravages your body like it belongs to him.

You feel good and horrible.

Blood on fire, nerves on fire, you breathe as a way to steady yourself in this moment of maddening agony. You are uncomfortable in every way possible in the given situation, and oh how it fills the void in your soul with something...alive.

Here, at the mercy of this killer's cruel hands, you feel alive for the first time in what feels like forever. It's horrible and unwelcome and scary as hell, but it's also absolutely electrifying.

How fucked up is your mind anyway?

The man continues to grind into your ass with every heated inch of his cock, the movement of his fingers in your pussy quickening, the heel of his gloved hand rubbing relentlessly against your clit in this position. The hand on your breast doesn't stop teasing your nipple, poking and pinching. With every noise he pulls from you, his movement becomes faster, hips matching the rhythm of his fingers in your intimacy. As if you were egging him on. You whimper, squeezing him so hard you could tell you were trying to keep him out, but the action only serves to heighten the sickening pleasure coiling in your stomach.

“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting his fingers in and out, in and out, watching in the mirror as your face contorts with pleasure. “So good. Feeling so good to me. You squeeze my fingers so hard, princess. Fuck. That’s my good fucking girl, yeah?”

Admittedly someone with a blatant emotional inability to accept any kind of compliment — especially one from a fucking serial killer who’s currently keeping you impaled on his fingers while grinding his cock into your ass and making you cry like he’s getting paid to — you slump your shoulders and pant, staring wide-eyed at the man, your rapid breathing fogging the glass of the mirror. His words sink into your bones, stoking the rising heat in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around his fingers again. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing his masked face against your burning cheek.

“Do you like that, you filthy slut? Do you like when I tell you how good you feel? Hell, you’re fucking squeezing me. Your pretty little pussy wants me so bad.”

Your eyelashes flutter and your breathing becomes more ragged; fear, pleasure, and pain combine into one intense experience, and you realize with horror that you’re approaching orgasm. It’s humiliating, but it doesn’t stop you from tentatively moving your own hips against his palm, seeking more friction on your little clit as heated tears roll down your cheeks.

‘No, no, no, please.’ You whimper to yourself, eyes nearly rolling into the back of the head as you arch your ass into his hips in involuntary response to the inescapable, frenzied sensation coursing through your body.

“The poor baby’s gonna cum.” He chuckles, though his own voice is breathy, wild. “Yeah, gonna make a fucking mess of that pussy and get it all nice and wet for my cock, right?” He growls wickedly between his chuckles, pushing your body forward with each hard drag of his cock into your ass, grinding the leather of his glove into your clit as he repeatedly hits the same sensitive spot in your cunt.

You can’t take it anymore, your clenched jaw slackening as you begin to give in to the pleasure. The overwhelming wave of your coming orgasm is visible on the horizon and you can’t do anything but stare at it head on, waiting helplessly to be absolutely swept away by it.

"Ah ah, fuck!" You cry out between parted lips, viciously squeezing the edge of the counter between your fingers, losing control over your body, unable to stop yourself from moaning lewdly in time with the forced climax.

With one last flick of his fingers and a pinch to your nipple, you have no choice but to stare blankly into the mirror as you shatter into a thousand pathetic pieces with a strangled scream. The trembling of your inner thighs is quickly followed by your toes curling inside the red boots of the costume as you cum hard around the masked killer's fingers.

Your pussy quivers violently as he shakes with laughter against your body, with a dose of sincere joy that you would find almost childish if it weren't for the obscene way he is still thrusting his cock into your back. He continues to finger fuck you throughout your orgasm, leaving you gasping and writhing in shocks of pleasure, your eyes wide and wet in the mirror.

“Please stop, that’s enough-” You gasp, your legs locking from the overstimulation as he continues to work your clit mercilessly. “P-please, I’ll do anything, please just stop! Stop now -"

You're interrupted as a whirlwind of dizzying events ensues; one moment he's fingering your pussy to overstimulation with no intention of stopping - the next he's pulling his fingers from your quivering walls with such force that it elicits a shocked gasp from you. Your body is suddenly spun around and your back slams painfully into the mirror with an impact strong enough to crack the glass into several sharp ridges on your back, small shards getting stuck in the back of your costume. You have half a second to scream at the dangerous sensation before he's straightening you up on the counter, his body wedging between your parted legs before you can even react and close them.

You're still trying to figure out what happened; how he managed to just lift you into the air and slam you into the counter like you weighed nothing. How he was so quick to do it and, most importantly, what motivated him to do it. But all is forgotten when he grabs your neck between his fingers, roughly pulling your face closer to his until you're face to face with that ghostly mask.

But there's no fake face in the world that can hide the anger bubbling through the man's pores. A feeling so obvious, intense and abrupt that it makes you shiver and try to pull away reflexively, but his grip won't let you go anywhere. His already undeniably imposing figure straightens to its full height, intimidating and dangerous, a ominous and dark aura that encircles your body like a spool of doom.

"Stop? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me when to stop? Do you know who decides when we stop, you bitch? Me! That fucking cunt belongs to me. It's mine as fuck and you're not going to tell me when I should or shouldn't touch it. Because your whole body, your mind, your fucking soul, is mine. Mine."

He curses and bites acidly right in front of your face and fear hits you all at once, absolutely terrifying: the way he’s panting under his mask and hissing with barely contained rage, the way your name leaves his lips in a heated growl. A direct threat from a mindless animal. It’s all clear — so, so clear.

He’s dangerous and unstable and horrible and you can’t escape him.

Your hands start to tug at his wrist, pushing him away, already sensing what’s coming - and it really comes. Ignoring your futile attempt to push him away, the hand on your throat tightens. His fingers press, cutting off the air, squeezing and hurting your flesh. Your windpipe is tightly caged between his palm and thumb and he shows no hesitation as he presses hard, suffocating you with a cruel grip.

Now, unlike his outburst of anger a few seconds ago, with your life literally being measured in his hands, he becomes the cold and indifferent embodiment of his alias, watching your fight as if it were nothing new.

It isn't.

The world around you begins to spin as you feel dizzy, your head swimming and spinning as your heart beats uselessly against the finger over your carotid artery, numb lips and throat working ever more slowly beneath his hand. Your struggle is over, as meaningless as it was to begin with.

You surrender to this ghost, dropping his hands from his wrist and letting your body go limp beneath him.

The monster senses your surrender, humming contently at your soft submission, even though you are barely conscious enough to notice. The grip on your throat loosens and you instinctively tilt your head away from his grasp, gasping for breath in desperate noises, coughing and spitting as tears spill over in response to the throbbing sting in the circumference of your throat. You feel a large hand stroke your hair as you struggle to catch your breath; and the almost patronizing touch, as horrible and unwelcome as it is, grounds you for a moment, helping you gradually transform your rapid, labored breathing into deep sighs.

"Don't forget what I'm going to say now and maybe we won't have to go through this again, princess:" He whisper at you with serious voice. "You're mine. For better or worse. You're mine."

The hand in your hair moves forward, tangling in the strands, massaging your skull, and it's probably just the hazy haze of suffocation that keeps you from noticing his next move, but it's the feel of a gentle, wet kiss on the bruised line his fingers have left on your skin that makes you conscious once more. He holds your head firmly by the hair, preventing you from moving to get a better look, but it's immediately clear that he's pushed the mask up enough to expose his lips, which continue to slide along the curve of your neck and jaw.

Your ears are throbbing with the pounding of your heart as you stare over the killer’s shoulder at the wall across the bathroom with wide eyes – the man blowing puffs of pure wet heat across your skin to leave goosebumps in his wake. His mouth is undesirably soft and delicate on your bruised skin (pleasant really, you’d say, if you weren’t, well…in the situation you’re in), his other hand coming up so he can rub his thumb across your lips, slowly parting them until he pokes your teeth with the tip of his glove.

“Open that pretty mouth and show me you know it, sweet little slut.” He whispers the degradation with a noticeably lessened dose of hatred than before – low and breathy, his mouth on your cheek, his thumb pulling away to run his index and middle fingers across your parted lips.

His breath bathes your skin in wet heat, the refreshing scent of some mint gum he chewed recently still there. (He was chewing a damn piece of gum while he murdered someone, your mind completes in full hysterics. Brutally piercing some poor student's insides with the sharp blade of that knife while he carelessly rolls the soft gum between his teeth. He's sick, sick, sick.)

"Suck them clean." He orders, cutting through the murky waters of your wandering mind as pushes two fingers onto the flat of your tongue, forcing you to accept the invasion.

It's on autopilot that you register the strong, smoky taste of leather mixed with the familiar taste of your arousal, which still glistens with the fresh wetness of your orgasm on the surface of his glove. You squeeze your eyes shut, gagging more at the sheer depravity of the act than the intrusion itself.

"That's it, princess. So beautiful like this, taking my fingers like a good girl..." he pulls his face away to look at yours, smiling at your fearful gaze; you close the lips around his fingers, sucking and licking slowly at the soft leather of the glove as you clean your own taste from the material as if you meant it - even as the tears keep falling. All you can see in the purple lighting of the bathroom is the lower half of his face and even that is partial, the white mask resting on his nose shadowing what little skin is visible. Despite that, it is evident how his smile stretches, wide and mischievous - pearly teeth slightly crooked at the front, canines sharp and shiny, like those of a cunning predator that has caught up with its prey.

His grip on your hair tightens to keep you still, his fingers coming to life as he thrusts slowly, out and in and out and in, into the cozy warmth of your mouth. You choke around him, saliva pooling between teeth and flesh as he pushes your tongue down, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy — each slow stroke pushing deeper, until you feel the tips of both his fingers sliding down your throat.

“God, I want to feel so bad that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock,” he sighs, his gaze locked on yours, fascinated by your gasps and sobs, his smile slowly dying so he can bite his lip as he hums dreamily, “you’re going to be so good to me, I just know it.”

Your wet gaze is half-lidded, mouth slack and full, only giving in to the forced intrusion when you feel him gather the strands of your hair into a messy ponytail in his other hand to pull and push your head along his now-still fingers - the explicit and purposeful parallel of the depraved act with another very unique one does not go unnoticed.

He's guiding the rhythm of your head as if he is dictating how you suck his cock.

It is humiliating; a byproduct of male dominance that is offensive and filthy in its most brutal form. You hate every damn second of this silent abuse. But your pussy seems to have a mind of its own, because with each forced thrust against the saliva-soaked leather of the glove, it clenches a little tighter around nothing, demanding attention.

You whimper at the betrayal of your own body, mouth stuffed and saliva beginning to drip down your lips and chin.

When he withdraws his fingers from between your lips, it is with calculated slowness, prolonging the elasticity of a thick thread of saliva that remains joining the digits in the glove to your loose tongue. He grunts a satisfied sound at the debauched sight, lowering his face to stretch out his own tongue and break the sticky bond after a few seconds of contemplation, licking the saliva accumulated on your chin upwards with a greedy drag of the wet and hot muscle, lighting flames of embarrassment on your cheeks.

You shudder at the grip on your hair as he pulls your head back at the same time as roughly sinks his teeth into the soft plush of your lower lip. Your little hands immediately spread themselves on his chest to try to push him away, but this and your cry of pain only serve to draw an amused laugh from him. It is obviously of his own free will that he mercifully gives in to your plea after a few seconds of torture. He sucks the sensitive flesh into his lips, licking and soothing the bite with a gentle, wet suction.

Mistakenly, your body decides to relax against his hands, welcoming the gentle but cunning care that is his tongue caressing the small, bloody cut he left on your lip. He eases your pain, even if it is because of him that you feel it in the first place.

It is natural for the contact to evolve, after all, his tongue is right there; sliding across your lower lip, his lips brushing yours provocatively. It is really predictable what would happen next, but it still pulls a dazed gasp from your throat.

His fingers hold your head firmly by the ponytail and his mouth covers yours completely, like a wet, warm cocoon that you cannot escape. The groan that sounds from his throat at the feel of your lips on his is one of deep satisfaction, a breathy appreciation that rumbled as he curls his body over yours, locks your legs around his waist, and moves his mouth over yours.

It’s nothing like any kiss you’ve ever experienced in the past. You’re not even sure if it could even be called a kiss.

There are perhaps no words for it other than hunger and need as he barely touches his mouth to yours before his lips are forcing yours apart so the wet muscle of his tongue can slide between your teeth. He’s rough and intense, kissing you like he’s kicking your soul out of your body. It’s all a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves you with your hands trembling in the collar of his robe, your eyes half-lidded and your cheeks flushed as you struggle not to choke on the wild rhythm of the pseudo-kiss. Every inch of the contact feels equally forced and premeditated, an unaltered conclusion that has you subtly pushing your hips forward against him as the sheer surprise and discomfort of the act subsides into something deeper. Darker. You can barely breathe in the tiny, moist inches that open between your lips, making small choking sounds in his mouth - stunned, outraged, humiliated, bursting into flames-

The pointed chin of the mask is digging painfully into your skin at this angle and all you can do is try to tilt your head to the side to avoid hurting yourself, since the man doesn't seem to have the slightest interest in your comfort. But not even this is enough to contain the chilling flame that grows between your legs with each hot breath that leaves the killer's nostrils on your cheek, his greedy tongue licking your teeth and his lips drinking your saliva as if it were the most delicious wine.

When he breaks the kiss it's like breathing after a long time underwater, your other senses dulled and directed only at him like a funnel.

"What in the bloody hell was that? Getting a guy all heated and bothered with a kiss," He grins between a breathy laugh, barely separating his lips from yours, rubbing the tips of your noses together in a comical imitation of affection as you both breathe heavily, "you really are something special, aren't you little girl?"

As you gasp for air, feeling your cheeks darken several shades at the unwanted compliment, the man caresses your face in a disturbingly affectionate manner, as if he's rewarding you for letting him kiss your mouth like that, even though it's clear he's not done yet. Pulling away from you just a few inches, you twitch and yelp as he roughly grabs you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the counter, making you subconsciously lean your back. A second later, he rips the tiny shorts you're wearing down, skimming over the curve of your ass and thighs, grabbing the flesh there greedily as he simply rips the thing off your body.

It takes a few seconds for the realization that there are no more barriers in place to keep the killer at bay to sink in — not that it ever did stop him before anyway. But knowing that beneath your red pleated skirt there’s no covering to offer even a modicum of safety (even if misguided) is nerve-racking in a way that makes your blood roar through your veins, and, illogically, not in a bad way.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, wet, breathless lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he bends down slightly to unbuckle his belt. The clink of metal is nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the loud music downstairs. “That’s what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you look up with those big, shy eyes — I want you to look at me, I need that look to be mine. And you don’t understand, do you? You drive me so fucking crazy, girl.” You barely put up a fight when he takes a thigh in each hand and wraps them around his waist before taking his cock in his palm and stroking it a little. It takes everything in you not to look down, teeth sinking into the soft, swollen surface of your lower lip as you hear the wet squelch that the contact between his gloved fingers and his cock makes with each lewd tug.

There should be more resistance in you, but all that’s left at this point is exhaustion and the painful slap of reality that comes with accepting the fact that you’re not rejecting this as much as you used to. There’s a war going on between your body and your mind. Where, of course, you know how sick this man is and how dangerous it would be to give in, there’s also the certainty that he brings out something undesirable in you — that intoxicating, dark sensation of feeling good about being so violently desired by someone. It’s not something you’re proud of, of course. But there’s no denying the way your body wants to succumb to it, to give itself completely to this cruel man you don’t even know but who is obviously obsessed with you. It’s something you can’t begin to comprehend, much less accept, but it comes rushing back to you anyway.

Your poor therapist might have a thing or two to say about such urges.

He rubs the bulbous crown of his cock against your sensitive, shamefully touch-starved clit and you shiver as the heat and dew of his pre-cum spreads through you at the contact. A warm, newborn droplet trickles over your bud of nerves, bathing it in tingling as he steadily nudges the tip along your wet folds. His thumb joins in the teasing, swirling with a few hard rubs followed by a softer touch, too deliberate to be anything but expert, pushing against the hood and pulling it back, exposing your nub to him even more. From his expose lips he makes a deep sound as he feels you getting wetter, more slippery. He circles your clit relentlessly and it’s him who moans louder between the two of you, even though it’s you who’s eyes are rolling back in pleasure.

He recovers quickly, though. Hearing and seeing how loud the sounds of your wetness ring out in the small bathroom, he breathes a laugh so mocking and icy that you feel yourself immediately wither against the mirror behind you, your face burning with the blush of a new wave of humiliation. The killer ignores you, of course, using one hand to lift your thigh up and to the side, doing the same with the other, adjusting both of your legs so that your feet rest almost flat along the edge of the counter - exposing you as if your modesty and dignity mattered nothing at all.

And it doesn't. Not to him.

"So wet." He teases, annoyingly making a point of giving voice to what you've both already realized. His hand slides over the curve of your thigh possessively, pushing the draped fabric of your red skirt with it so that it bunches at your hips. He groans as watches his length freely slide through the slickness between your legs, giving a shallow pump forward. The gloved thumb presses with just the right amount of force, rubbing in a circular motion that makes your toes curl inside the boots and your throat tighten at the noise you suppress. That is, until the soft, wet tip catches against your opening and he pushes inside without further ado.

You gasp loudly at the sharp pressure, reflexively slapping the hands against his chest to push him away, but soon both his arms are around your body, preventing you from going any further, pinning you against him with his strong hands and his cock.

“Aaaah!” You cry out, and he immediately brushes his lips against your ear, leaving a sharp bite on the sensitive flesh, enjoying the struggle evident on your face. Your pussy hasn’t been used properly in a long time, and this man certainly doesn’t lack in the size department.

“Shhhh,” he hums, sounding too pleased for it to even remotely be interpreted as an attempt at comfort. “You can handle it, baby,” he whispers in your ear, one hand relaxing its iron grip on your body to cup your cheek, “I know you can.”

It’s not like he’s giving you any options other than to handle it. And yet, over the sting of the stretch and the ache of being taken without denying it, your insides burn with dark desire. It’s like being fully satisfied with something you didn’t even know you needed.

“That’s it?” he asks as you throw your head back in the mirror, eyes closed and teeth digging into your bottom lip. “Does it feel good to you like this? Baby likes a little pain, yeah?”

You blush, unable to think about it too much without feeling like you could go straight to the hospice.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you for an answer. Instead, firmly breaching your tremble hole, he thrusts and thrusts and gasps heated and wetly into your ear, pressing deeper until he’s halfway in. And then he stops. The fingers of one hand close loosely on the bruised skin of your throat and you freeze, fearing for a moment that he’s going to choke you once more — this time while impaling you on his thick cock. But as the seconds stretch by without such a thing happening, you begin to notice something else. Those fingers; cruel, bloody fingers, responsible for the deaths of many people, are unsteady on your flesh.

He’s trembling.

The elongated digits are gripping your flesh with no real pressure, just a nice, soft collar around your throat, but the way they’re trembling is noticeable even through the barrier of the glove.

You open your eyes to a slit, knowing you can’t see him properly with the way his mouth remains pressed against your ear, breathing heavily and heatedly. And there’s no logical explanation as to why such an action catches you so off guard. But feeling this killer, this horrible, terrifying man who is obviously incapable of a basic level of respect for human life, gasp and tremble at being inside you, makes you gasp in response. Your insides clench involuntarily and more moisture coats the heavy shaft in your pussy, making it easier for him to pass through.

Then, slowly, he moves his other palm up to squeeze your breast over the fabric of your costume before he begins to pump the rest of his length inside you.

“Mmm…that’s it,” he murmurs, “f-fuck, you feel so good, so good.”

Again, you say nothing, burying your embarrassing moans and your tears as best you can — both from pleasure and humiliation. The man is so disturbingly warm curled up against you, his body broad and tall and so firm, dark clothing heavy but soft over his defined stomach that flexes against you with each thrust - the mask poking your flesh every now and then as his breath hitches in your ear. You want to cry out in fear as much as you want to scream in pleasure.

It’s a bitter kind of betrayal the way your body seems to want to decide the game for you; your quivering pussy giving in, against all logic and reason, to accept the forced intrusion, allowing the rest of his cock to pass inside your silky walls. You lose the battle almost immediately after that, gasping at the feel of every inch of his thick member firmly seated inside you, breathless at what he’s daring to do to you. Worse than if he had broken into the bathroom to murder you, you’d say. Because here, he’s not just violently attacking you and taking your right to life, without you being able to fight back. Here he’s making you submit to him; making you want to surrender to the overwhelming sensations that he brutally rips from your body - like a priest exorcising a poor possessed soul. He humiliated you in the worst possible way and he knows it.

And you find yourself less and less concerned about it.

You tilt your head to the side - and now there is no more internal restraint to prevent your moans.

“Please…aaah…”

“That’s it, princess,” he chuckles, as if he senses you’re giving in.

The time he stays still inside you doesn’t last long, just the few seconds long enough for you to feel the heat and enlargement of his cock, the thick veins pulsing as he bounces between your walls. It’s as if the pain has pierced you beyond anything else, pierced you like a sharp bolt of lightning that has fried your nerves until it’s left behind nothing but a sense of…overwhelming fullness. You’re completely boneless, trapped between his strong body and the mirror, your hands clenched loosely in the dark fabric of his robe. It’s a sensory experience that quickly becomes too much, but not enough.

When he pulls his hips back you experience a confused moment of panic, frustrated as you feel him pull away from you to leave your pussy achingly empty. There’s no time to question the insanity of your thoughts though.

His fingers are still shaking as he pulls away from you, releasing your throat to tangle them deep into the roots of your hair as a scream is forced like a punch from your lungs when, in a single strong thrust, he is fully sheathed within your quivering insides once more.

Between the iron grip on your hair and his hand gripping your breast like a vise, all you can do is grip his robe tighter as he ravages you. His teeth are where your neck meets your shoulder with a sharp bite, pulling away to thrust inside you in another violent thrust, your hole stretched and more vulnerable than ever. Your frantic brain is making you all too aware of every little sensation racking your body. The way his thick cock opens you, how each thrust makes your smaller body tremble, leaving you breathless as you dig your nails into the soft fabric of his robe to try and hold on through the punishing rhythm of his hips. When this night is over, and assuming you’re still alive, you know you’ll be bruised and sore everywhere, from your hips and ass to your breasts and throat. In your mind and in your soul. Right now, you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this. If you’d ever want to.

"S-stop..." You don't know why the words are coming out of your mouth; not only would they be useless to the man, but they also carry no real force behind them. You don't even know if you really want him to stop. It feels more like an instinctive reaction than what your brain deems to be the right thing to do. "I - I'm going to scream."

He laughs, recognizing your empty threat for what it is, but your stomach still twists when he grips your hair to pull your face towards his.

"Oh, you promise? Please do it, little girl."

Out of spite, you close your mouth, but that only seems to incite him. With an amused chuckle and one last pinch to your nipple, he releases your breast to grab both of your thighs. His hands are large on your flesh while his fingers bruise the soft skin even more.

"Such a stubborn little thing. We can't have any of that, can we, sweetie?"

His hands curl under your ass and, after a greedy squeeze, he’s lifting you up, not letting his cock slip out of your pussy for even half a moment before he slams you against the wall. Your spine arches and your bones rattle from the nothing short of violent impact, but he doesn’t care, writhing and pulsing inside you, undeniably stimulated by your pain - and oh god, this definitely shouldn’t feel as fucking good as it does.

It barely takes a second before he’s holding you steady and still by your thighs before he starts ramming his wet cock in and out of you again, like a machine, so hard that each thrust of his hips makes your back hit the wall.

In this position you’re forced to wrap your arms behind his neck for safety, feeling his hands close on the inner curve below your knee to spread your legs even wider, his body so intimately pressed against yours that it’s almost unsettling. Especially after so long without any human contact like this. You feel, to say the least, overwhelmed by such a sudden onslaught of intimacy.

You tense when he thrusts in a particularly dirty way, grinning like hell when you hiccup with a moan. He repeats the movement out of pure tease, his mask askew but turned toward you, the mocking line of his lips right next to yours.

“Mine,” he whispers, “My princess, my little pet, my cute little toy.”

His thrusts become not only hard but fast as well, and you can hear each time his body hits yours with a wet slap, each withdrawal slick and sticky.

“Please, w-why are you doing this? Why me?” It’s all you can manage to ask, your head growing increasingly confused, your pussy growing wetter.

He slows his movements to a blessedly slower grind, humming dramatically as he pretends to ponder your question.

“Why you?”

In an abrupt movement that you wouldn't have expected in a million years, he lets go of one of your thighs and abruptly rips the mask off his face, with such ease that you initially don't understand what it means. But then, with finality and violence, the weight of reality falls upon you.

He took off the mask.

He let you see his face.

The face of a murderer wanted by the police.

You were already dead. Yes, if such a fate was uncertain before, it certainly isn't anymore.

The shock of the revelation is so absolute that it takes a few seconds for you to actually focus on his face. But slowly, each individual feature seems to stick to your mush brain.

First you are greeted with that shock of long platinum blonde hair, tied in a loose bun, a few strands stuck to the sweaty skin of his forehead and the sides of his face.

The hair alone would be enough for you to easily recognize him.

But then your gaze falls to those eyes.

Eye, actually. A single, functional one, a stormy blue — enigmatic and dark as the turbulent waters of the farthest reaches of the ocean. The other, or where the other should be, is occupied by some kind of ocular prosthesis of a blue hue that could not be less like his good eye — a vivid, electric blue, like a rare, brilliant sapphire stone.

It is the first time you have seen him like this, so exposed. Always hidden by a pair of sunglasses or, failing that, a surgical eye patch. The pale skin of the man’s face would be flawless, were it not for the long, jagged scar that cuts across his cheekbone to above the line of his damaged eye.

The purple hues of the bathroom highlight all his sharp angles and an elegant appearance that is characteristic of the aristocratic genes of someone so well born.

Yes, you know this man.

Aemond Targaryen.

A college guy. Normal, as far as you can tell. Or as normal as someone privileged and born with a silver spoon in their mouth could be. Yes, he was introverted, arrogant even with his silent and mysterious attitude, as if everyone was beneath him. The few times he was pushed to enter a conversation or any other social interaction (most often by his own brother) his comments were imbued with a polite acidity that is totally unique to someone with class, or with discreet but effective jabs that carried a humor considered, at least, questionable.

Aemond constantly balanced on the fine line between cool elegance and petulant irreverence, which generated controversial opinions about him among the students. To you, he was intriguing. Someone you quietly admired, offering polite greetings and a sincere smile when your paths crossed.

Yes, you knew him - as did the entire student body knows him. The Targaryens were obscenely wealthy, widely recognized for carrying an exorbitant legacy not only of family polemics, but also of successful generations, all in the field of technology and communication.

And yes, Aemond Targaryen was someone seriously conflicted, with his taciturn and enigmatic aura.

But a serial killer? That would be impossible.

And yet he was here, smelling of leather and sandalwood - as well as blood and death, wet crimson stains on his dark robes, forcing you to the most terrifying and controversial act of your entire life.

The dawning horror of the notion that the killer on the loose could be someone you know, someone who was present in your daily life, who attended the same classes as you and yet, who you never even dreamed of suspecting, seems to want to suffocate you momentarily.

“I see you around campus. You know, some wise ones tend to avoid me whenever possible, and then there are those pathetic rats who try to get close out of some specific interest in what my clown family can offer. But you? You’re always kind. Even with your mysterious and solitary attitude, you’re still so stupidly kind to me. It’s ridiculous, princess, but also so cute.” He’s pleased by the utter shock on your face, grinning evilly as he shoots his hand out and wraps both forearms around the inside of your knees, his cock thrusting deeper into your pussy, leaning in menacingly until his teeth are grazing your ear.

“You’re all I can think about, baby. You’ve invaded my mind, my body, my life. You’ve fucking ruined me.” He speaks directly into your ear, a harsh whisper that makes you gasp and shiver despite the crushing weight of the discovery still fresh in your mind.

“It’s only fair that I ruin you too, right?”

You glow at the intimacy of his words, incandescent with the blush spreading across your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone.

“You...oh, fuck...” Your accusatory words to him die on your tongue as one particular thrust hits a spot inside you that has you curling the toes in response. Little gasps escape your lips as he hits the same spot over and over, your eyes filled with revulsion and desire beginning to soften with an inevitable flutter of the lashes. 

 “That’s right, just take it, baby.” He sighs with a smile, kissing your jaw as you tilt your head back. His voice is like molasses; soft but rough around the edges — sweet but dark with the huskiness of his lust. It’s getting harder for you to control this feeling now. You feel your legs tighten, instinctively trying to wrap yourself around his waist tighter. A hand rising from his broad shoulder to tangle in the platinum strands of hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting an approving grunt from the man. He watches you with awe and a hooded gaze as you give in to that feeling of helplessness once again.

“You feel so warm and wet, dripping all over that pretty pussy, drooling on my cock like that…you’ve been just as desperate as I have, umm? So lonely…you’ll never be lonely again, princess,” he promises hotly, groping his way up your thighs until he grabs your ass, thrusting slowly, deeply, brushing against your cervix each time.

“I’m going to fuck your ass like that someday.” He says casually with a sly smile as his fingertips slide along the crack of your ass, thrusting his cock into your pussy harder to show you what he means, making your breath shallow and your eyes widen. “I think I’ll do that next time indeed. Fill every tight little hole in your body. Mark every inch of your skin as mine.” 

“Oh, God -” You feel tears forming in your eyes and streaming down your cheeks as you squeeze them shut, shaking as he teases you with wicked words, his hands coming up to grip either side of your waist. “Stop, please.”

“Oh no, baby, I’m not stopping. Not now and not ever. I’m going to claim that body in every damn way I can. With my cock, my fingers, my tongue.” You moan and pull away from him, your cheeks red and wet, shaking your head in a mumbled protest that’s too weak to be taken seriously. There’s more pleasure on your face than fear. He chuckles. “Do you like that? Do you like the idea of ​​my tongue in that sweet pussy?”

Before you can think to deny it, his mouth crashes down on yours, rough and brutal, hungry. There’s blood on your tongue, you notice, the cut reopened in his greed, the taste ferrous and acrid in your mouth as his tongue slides inside — his, maybe, or yours, or both, you don’t know.

As quickly as it begins, it ends. Aemond pulls back enough to brush his lips against yours, sharing quick, wet breaths.

“Oh yes, you do. You love knowing that I want to lick that pussy until you come, once, twice, three times — until you squeal and beg me to stop. But I won’t. I’ll make you come as many times as I want, as many times as your body can take. And even then, even if you pass out from exhaustion, I’ll fuck you. Like a beautiful little sex doll.”

Amidst the sensual humiliation of his wanton words, you feel your back scraping against the wall; up and down, over and over. The grip of your fingers in his hair tightens and he growls in his throat, palming your ass to move it with more fervor. He holds his own body still, using only the strength of his arms hooked in the crook of your knees and his hands on your waist to move you up and down his cock.

His face, though it still manages to hold that cold, wicked smirk, is smudged with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of the nose, the rest of his pale skin glistens slightly with sweat, and his good eye is dark with desire — the pupil so wide it almost completely overpowers the blue of his iris. And he’s beautiful like that; even with the prosthetic eye and the frightening scar. Beautiful and ethereal, completely belying his sick personality and unforgivable sins.

Through parted lips he gasps with effort and it takes a moment, but when he pushes you up again, your face completely implodes into flames as you realize he’s using you to masturbate. He’s doing exactly what he said he would, using you like a sex doll, a flashlight clenched around his cock.

His thrusting becomes faster and rougher as he grips your waist tighter between his broad palms, dragging your pussy down his cock with short strokes. Your own breaths shorten, becoming ragged sobs each time the fabric of his robe rubs against your sensitive clit. When he’s basically grinding your pussy against him, undulating your hips in a hurried back and forth, he leans down to press the forehead to yours. His heavy, cold gaze stays locked on yours through each drag. 

“That’s it. That’s it. Look at me. You’re so tight, so good. Keep looking at me. Good girl.” He punctuates each word with breathless slowness. Each guided movement of your hips is intentionally placed — rubbing your walls against his thick cock while simultaneously stimulating your clit against the mound of fabric of his tunic in a way he knows will send you over the edge.

Despite the order, your eyes grow heavy and fluttery, beginning to roll back as the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tense in preparation for the inevitable climax. That scary and wonderful cliff that taunts you in a messy way, approaching faster than you can understand.

A hard slap on your cheek brings you back.

“What did I just say, princess?” he growls, his voice rough with the effort of holding back his own desires. And your cheek stings where he’s hit you, glowing an even deeper shade of red, but you barely give it half a second’s attention — not when he’s looking at you like this; all breathless, sweaty lines and smoldering gaze.

“Keep your fucking eyes on me.” He releases your jaw with a warning jerk, sliding his hand down through your wet mess to find your swollen clit and circle the bud with his thumb, his other hand still tight around your waist. His body grinds into yours, flattening you against his lean muscles and the wall, slamming his hips into yours without pause.

You take a deep, shaky breath.

Your boots cross behind his back, skirt swinging at his waist with each thrust. And yet you do your best to hold Aemond’s obsessive gaze – unable to even name the intensity of the emotion swirling within you. The muscles in your thighs now tremble visibly, clenching tightly around his body in your impending release.

“Aemond – I need, oh, I can't…” You whisper, barely realizing what comes out of your mouth, a broken moan escaping along with the jumbled words, your entire body twitching under the expert assault of his thumb on your clit and his quick, relentless thrusts. You were close. So close. Balancing precariously right on the edge. And he knew it too. 

“That’s it, say my fucking name as you cum for me. Come on, do it now little girl.”

It happens quickly after that, relentlessly, your eyes trying to close without your permission, but you are obedient and keep them half-lidded as you stare at Aemond, a choked cry finally escaping your throat. 

“Aemond!”

With a determined growl, sweat dripping down his temples, he thrusts into you harder and harder until the tight coil snaps. Shockwaves of electric pleasure overwhelm you, forcing all the air from your lungs in a messy gasp. You shake as you come, clenching the fist against your attacker’s chest, nails digging into the roots of his silver hair, trying to ignore the stinging taste of shame as you find purchase in his body. 

“Look at me. Look at me, baby.” He pushes his forehead against yours, sending you a sly, proud smile as your eyes flutter and water with the effort of keeping them open through the climax. His pace quickens with the excitement of seeing your drunken gaze and flushed face.

His own release washes over him like the purest rush of insanity; brows furrowed as if he’s in pain, lips parted in a hoarse groan that raises every little hair on your body. His warm cum fills you, bubbling at the tight rims of the ring of muscle where his cock stretches you. He stays buried inside as his balls empty, his head finally tilting back and breaking intense eye contact as his lips release another long, satisfied groan.

When it’s all over, he slowly leans down to touch your foreheads once more, and you feel an overwhelming, incoherent wave of satisfaction when notice the muscles in his arms and fingers trembling where they touch your skin. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs between labored breaths. “All mine.”

He babbles possessively, rolling his hips into you to prolong the intimacy, even as you feel him softening discreetly within your walls.

“I’ll burn the world for you, I’ll do anything to keep your eyes on me like this. I’ll kill as many as it takes to have you by my side.” His voice, husky and haunting, makes you shiver with horror — with heat.

You don’t think he needs your involvement in the story to fulfill the last part of his dark promise. Not with the previous list of confirmed murders or the blood that stains his clothes tonight. That stains your costume now too. But his words still send a swarm of butterflies dancing in your stomach and, not for the first time, you find yourself questioning the integrity of your mental health.

He’s smiling at your flushed, uncomfortable features, swollen lips brushing against yours playfully as he catches the breath to say something else that will surely upset you deeply. Before he can, however, his broad body freezes against yours, whatever he was about to say abruptly dying on his tongue.

Like a tense and intriguing suspense, the two of you are slowly bathed in the garish red and blue lights that filter through the small bathroom window, overshadowing the soft purple lighting from before.

The police.

Just as the realization sets in, the sound of sirens is heard; loud and distinctive. And it is then, and only then, that you notice that there are no more sounds of music coming from downstairs.

When had it stopped?

Relief is the first thing you feel. Hope and security flicker in your chest until a new wave of tears blurs your vision. But the feeling quickly withers before another realization. The police, along with your college friends, were minutes away from finding out where and who you had been all this time. They would find Aemond, it was true. They would finally arrest the killer known as Ghostface. But they would also find you. You, abused, raped and humiliated.

God, could they deduce just by looking at you that, at some point during this violation, you had started to want this?

Your jaw is gripped by his firm fingers, making your wide, wet eyes focus on the man in front of you. He looks at you with such intensity, serious and analytical, and in that moment you are sure that he knows exactly what you are thinking.

“I know where every single one of your friends lives, what every single one of them does during the day — every damn minute of their activities is recorded for me,” he whispers slowly, sinking each word into your overworked brain to make sure you understand. “The same goes for your family members. I know where they live, who they are, and what they do. Dare to open your pretty little mouth to anyone about me and you’ll get one of their heads every time you open your dorm room door in the morning. I’ll even do the favor of gift wrapping it for you, baby.”

Your stomach lurches with sudden nausea, all the color draining from your face at the threat you know he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if need be.

“I truly hope you won’t betray my trust, love. Like I said before, I don’t want to kill you.” He smooths his knuckles down your tear-stained cheek, softening his tone to something softer and gentler — yet equally terrifying. “But I’ll do it to someone you care about without a second thought. So don’t test me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he seals his lips on yours. Just a light, wet touch, more an intimate exchange of heated breaths than a kiss. With an approving grunt when you sigh and surrender to his touch, he pulls away.

Your shaky, weak legs give way as he leaves your body, and you slide down the wall in a confused, weeping heap until you’re sitting on the tiled bathroom floor.

Hovering above you, Aemond tucks his penis into the pants and fastens his belt, straightening the robes with a perfectly neutral expression and calm manner, as if at this very moment the cops aren’t searching the frat house for him. Long fingers casually grip the mask lying on the counter, giving you one last intense, appraising look, licking his lips slyly before covering his face.

That ghost mask is back then, cold and frightening, pulling the hood up over his head before bending down and holding the bloody kitchen knife in the palm of his hand. Black boots click on the tile floor as he turns back to you and heads for the door, casting a glance over his shoulder as he places hand on the doorknob.

“This won’t be the last time, princess. I’ll come back for you.” His voice is dark and muffled by the mask, sounding more like a threat to your life than a lover’s promise, especially now that he’s back in his ghostly, cruel persona. “Until then, try not to miss me too much, and of course, be on your best behavior.”

He leaves as disturbingly as he came, with a dark swish of his cloak and an amused chuckle, closing the door with a teasing gentleness — as if he’s trying not to scare you. You might even buy his act, if it weren't for all the psychological terror he's inflicted on you so far.

And then you find yourself alone in the bathroom once again, with nothing but your own shame and accusatory thoughts.

And that's exactly how the cops find you a few minutes later. Sitting on the tile floor, pale as death, your Sailor Mars costume stained with blood and throat marked from the cruel grip of your attacker's fingers. Your cheek still stings from the slap he gave you.

You think you can hide the finger marks on your thighs by deliberately tucking the legs in, taking the opportunity to keep the messy puddle of cum out of sight of the lawmen. But one of them still wraps his jacket around you in a gesture of solidarity as he leads you out, reciting kind words that, despite their intention, do nothing to actually calm you.

“Oh, thank God!”

You stagger back at the sudden hug Mako gives you as you exit the house, crossing the area marked off by yellow police tape. The officer next to you clucks his tongue in disapproval, but steps aside to offer the two of you some privacy.

“Someone called the police when they found the bodies on the next street. It all happened so fast. The party was going on and then everything turned into absolute chaos and I couldn’t find you anywhere!” She babbles quickly as pulls away from the hug, looking you up and down with her puffy, red eyes, her hands shaking where they are — clenched tightly on the arms of the police jacket you’re wearing, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. “W-when they said that you could be upstairs with him…I-I thought…fuck…I really thought—”

“I know. But I’m here now. And I’m fine.” You cut her off, wiping away your own tears as you try to give her a very unconvincing smile. Predictably, she doesn’t buy your lie, but doesn’t press it either.

“They couldn’t catch him, pumpkin…” she says slowly after a moment of silence, her face contorted in pain for you. “By the time they got upstairs, he’d already escaped. I'm sorry."

You want to tell her that you know that, you were there when he fled before could be caught. Before you can, however, the officer from before is back - this time accompanied by another, a tall, tired-looking man with a gray beard. The sheriff, you assume.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions, miss." The older man grunts, looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else but here.

"She does, actually. Can't you see how she looks?!" Mako is quick to respond, leaning forward to position herself in front of you like a protective barrier. The officers look at her like she's a little girl throwing a tantrum, nothing but tired indifference on their faces.

"It's okay, Mako. I got it." You try to calm the situation, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently guide her to the side. "I'd rather do it now, actually. I just want to put this all behind me as soon as possible."

It's impossible to put this behind, but you don't say that part.

Mako holds your gaze for a few seconds, keeping such a watchful, worried glint in every expression on your face that, for a minute, you fear she might know exactly everything that happened just by that look. When she sighs and steps aside in reluctant surrender, you almost sigh along with her.

"Okay. But I won't go far, I'll be waiting for you right there."

You mumble an 'mkay' and she reluctantly walks away, not before casting a sharp glance at the two officers standing in the same position near you - who promptly ignore her silent attempt at a threat. When she finally walks away, you sigh, staring at the badge on the older man's chest for a few seconds as you prepare to craft a narrative of the facts that doesn't reveal anything about the killer's identity.

"Alright. What would you like to know, Sheriff Myers?"

Fortunately, the police in your town have never been the most diligent or perceptive, and while they may ask a few important questions here and there, they generally remain naturally ignorant to some confusing gaps in your version of events. You are careful to avoid saying anything about the sexual assault you suffered, opting to tell them only about the physical violence that they have inevitably noticed by now; the marks on your neck, wrists and the red slap on your cheek.

They accept your half-truths so easily that you would be offended if that wasn't exactly the goal. In the end, all that matters to them is the answer to one question:

"Did you get a look at his face? Skin color, hair, eyes... anything that might help us identify this fucker once and for all?"

And in that moment you think of Mako, her cheerful smile and irreverent attitude. You think of your parents, so safe and oblivious in your hometown. You think of the faces of every your family member, friend and colleague who could suffer an agonizing death at the hands of the killer if you dared to answer the wrong way.

"N-no, sir. I'm sorry, but no, I didn't see anything. He was completely covered the whole time, with gloves and a mask." You huddle deeper into the thick jacket over your shoulders, your arms wrapped around yourself.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, clearly disappointed at once again running in circles, but he doesn't press you on it. And after a few other less important questions, they both say goodbye with a standard guarantee of protection that you don't trust for a second.

They've barely moved away from you when your phone vibrates in the pocket with the warning of a new notification. After glancing over your shoulder in alarm to see if anyone was watching, you feel the heart race before you even reach for it, fingers already shaking with nervous anticipation, knowing exactly who the notification is from. With a shaky click of your thumb on the now mostly cracked and destroyed screen, the thing lights up for you:

--

Notification Center

2:23am - Unknown number

"Well done, little girl. You made me proud (and a little horny, I must admit) with all those pathetic little lies to the authorities. Keep being a good girl and everyone you care about will be safe. Scout's word.

We'll meet again sooner than you think.

A.T."

--

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞. 

main masterlist

pairing(s) — JAMIE DRYSDALE x reader (est. relationship) wc — 1.5k synopsis — jamie can’t keep his hands to himself, and neither can his girlfriend. (prompted on this ask)

note — title’s from summertime by bon jovi + yes, this is a re-upload from the main blog (@holy-pucks) since nothing of mine posted there shows up in the tags. if you’ve already liked or shared that post, i would really appreciate you doing the same with this new one :) thx a million in advance! xx 

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

cw — alcohol consumption/tipsy!reader x tipsy!jamie, accidental exhibitionism (jamie getting handsy at a bonfire bc he just can't resist lol), suggestive lang + innuendo, + general fluffy filth but nothing super explicit really, pretty tame for me tbh 

jamie drysdale has never been so pleased to have lost a fight in his entire life.

he didn't think it'd get cold enough to warrant lugging around an extra blanket (meaning him, not you—he's a gentleman). you thought otherwise, and pestered him until there was one neatly folded in the backseat.

objectively speaking, jamie was right; it wasn't even chilly. he was actually a little warm, if he was being honest, but that had a lot more to do with his wandering, beer-soaked mind than the weather or a superfluous layer.

—and he had a tent in his pants to prove it.

it's his own fault. he pulled you into his lap when there were more than enough lawn chairs scattered around the blazing fire, knowing full-well you fidget when you're tipsy. jamie knows you can't sit still to save your life, yet he sat you across his thighs anyway. and now he—and his raging hard-on—are paying the price.

he isn't embarrassed he's turned on, that's not the problem. that's never the problem. you've been dating for years, and anyone who's shocked by the effect you have on him has bigger problems than jamie's attraction to his own girlfriend.

it's the fact that he's about ten seconds away from pulling your suit to the side and rutting into you in the middle of a public beach with his friends not even a foot away.

someone across the half-moon crowd says something that makes you laugh—makes you wiggle. jamie's hands tighten on your hips to keep you still, but, by this point in the night, his body is too lax to be of much help. if anything, the impassioned touch eggs you on, and it isn't long before his hips are moving to match your mostly-involuntary movements.

jamie hisses through gritted teeth, jaw clenched so tight it aches. "baby, quit it—please."

fluttering half-lidded eyes meet his, clock his internal struggle, and immediately twinkle with mischief. under the guise of shifting your attention, you rub the outside of your thigh against the bulge threatening to tear his trunks.

"quit what?" you ask with a demure smile, your hands looping themselves around his neck. warm fingertips play with the feathered locks tickling his sunburnt neck, making him shiver.

"you know what," he glares. "i don't know when we'll get back home, and you're driving me insane."

"touch me here."

blinking in disbelief, he balks. "w-what?"

"touch. me. here."

each word is punctuated with a chaste peck to his ever-reddening cheek. the succinct affection bounces you in his lap, and jamie can't help but slide his hands further beneath the sandy blanket. at first, to halt the infuriating friction but, like usual, once his hands wander he just can't stop. consequences—and shyness—be damned.

"s'not a good idea." jamie nips your jaw, dotting a line of warm kisses along your neck, stopping once his nose brushes your ear. "my baby's loud as shit, and i'd rather not have an audience."

you swat his chest in offense, but giggle nonetheless. "am not!"

"are too." he smiles up at you.

"i can be quiet," you huff, determination furrowing your brow.

jamie reaches up to smooth the crease with his thumb. you catch his arm and press a sweet peck to the inside of his wrist. he shudders.

you hum into his skin, "i think you're projecting."

"that right?" your boyfriend feigns ignorance, amused.

"let me prove it," you whisper before leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. with your forehead flush to his, you try again. "please, jamie. i can't wait anymore—and i certainly can't wait until t strikes out with whoever he's obsessed with this week."

jamie snorts.

you make a solid point; it could be another ten minutes or upwards of two hours. his guess was as good as any—trevor himself included. jamie's really starting to hate that him finally fucking his own girlfriend hinges on his best friend's ability—or inability—to seal the deal.

"you make even a peep, and i stop. got it?"

what's the worst that could happen if he indulges you a bit? no one's even paying attention to either of you, anyway.

you nod, bottom lip pinched between your teeth. jamie tugs it free, fingertip dancing over the fresh indentations. your tongue slips out to tease his sun-soaked skin, and it isn't long before the digit is flush to your hot tongue.

jamie's eyes are almost black with lust as they watch your lips welcome and release his finger over and over again. your eyelids fall as he slips into a trance, mesmerized by your mouth.

"words, baby. gimme words," he prods, the words barely audible.

you surrender his hand with a faint pop, blinking down at him like you're already teetering on the precipice. "no sounds or you stop—i got it," you parrot. "now are you going to touch me?"

"needy, needy, baby," jamie teases after stealing a kiss. "i've spoiled you rotten, haven't i? can't even go a couple hours without begging me to touch you... s'alright, i can barely keep my hands of you. 'specially when i've got you sittin' all pretty in my lap like this."

"—jamie, please, just... just touch me already—need t'feel you."

chuckling to himself, jamie mercifully pushes the sodden material out of the way. he nearly moans at what he finds.

how much of it is from the evening dip you took with a couple of the other girlfriends, it's hard to tell, but he'd put good money on it being little to none. no, the damp patch growing in his lap is all you. sweet and warm, and perfectly you.

you gasp when he collects some of the escaped arousal with a few of his fingers. jamie raises a brow in your direction and you cover your mouth apologetically. he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. you're trying so hard to keep quiet, it's adorable.

"—haven't even done anything and you're already breaking your promise," he chides. "how am i supposed to give you what you want when you're already misbehaving?"

"the other one," you breathe. confused, jamie hesitates. "give me your other hand."

you fish his free hand out from between your bodies and bring it up to your mouth. his eyes bulge out of their sockets once your intentions become obvious; you mean to silence yourself by sucking on his middle and marriage as he fucks you with the other hand. your back is mostly to the group, but he's still paranoid as all hell.

yet, jamie can't bring himself to deny you—or himself.

"you're gonna be the death of me," he groans as your head dips.

too turned on to care, jamie relents and slips a gentle finger into you. your eyes pinch shut, teeth catching on his other hand, but no sound leaves you. as a reward for your good behavior, he sinks in even further, until he's knuckle-deep at both ends.

his movements are much slower than normal, but, somehow, it doesn't matter. jamie's thumb seeks out your clit, sensitive and swollen despite its neglect, and he traces lazy circles between deep, measured thrusts. all the while, he mouths at your neck with little concern for what evidence he might leave behind. jamie's sole focus is making you feel as good as he does right now with his half-naked, hot-as-hell girlfriend writhing in his lap, her pretty pussy clenching around his lucky fingers.

"—j-jamie," you warble around his drenched hand, hips bucking into the other with what little leverage you have positioned like this. "—close, s'close."

oh, he knows. he can tell. jamie knows your body better than you do; he's a diligent student.

"are you, baby?" jamie can't resist a bit of taunting. you're too far gone to push back. "poor thing, what do you need from me? tell me what you need to get there."

you're slow to answer, overwhelmed by the sensations attacking your mind from all angles. somewhere along the line, a second finger was added... and then a third. the burning stretch aches so good your vision blurs.

jamie, jamie, jamie—the beginning, middle, and end of your thoughts—jamie, through and though. he's everywhere, but it's still not enough.

"my n-neck," you eventually gasp. "please—kiss my neck again."

your boyfriend is more than happy to oblige. lips latched to the tender spot just below your ear, jamie lets his hand take control of the pace; he's no longer content to drag this out. it's been a long day, and all he wants is to watch his pretty girlfriend fall to pieces in his lap.

your peak is ushered in by a series of pitiful little whines and whimpers, mostly muffled by his spit-stained hand, but jamie doesn't have the heart—or the sanity—to chastise you for it. if he had it his way, his mind would play those beautiful, broken sounds on a loop.

but the reverie is too good to last. it always is.

"get a room, you two!"

a chorus of laughter and vulgar remarks succeed trevor's call-out. and, hot under the collar, jamie's cheeks burn pink as he buries his face in the safety of your neck.

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[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

thank you for writing the blurb i requested - the pining, their history, their friendship was perfect!!! and the phone calls and letters and care packages - they've been caring and supporting each other so attentively from day 1 😭 this made my day 🤎 roll for initiative has become such a comfort series for me 🥺 (i don't want to be greedy, but if you are open to more requests, could we please get a time skip in their relationship during the season. I'm so curious to see what the dynamics would be like and what challenges would present itself in their relationship/in life. also reader coming to games? what was the reaction to the hard launch? i have so many questions!) THANK YOU 🤎

Season Lightning: A 'Roll for Initiative' Blurb

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The house is eerily quiet. A phenomenon that only adds to your concern considering Joe wasn’t there at the door of the garage to greet you. It’s routine now for Joe to either be at your car door or at the garage door with Storm in arms to greet you. It’s quite possible that Joe might’ve fallen asleep after practice or maybe lost track of time in his office. Both of which have happened a time or two now that the season’s start is dawning. But today, only Storm greets you. His one succinct meow that he loves to deliver in greeting is the only other noise before the purrs start. 

You’re careful though should Joe be downstairs asleep as you venture into the kitchen to drop off your lunch bag. But before you make it fully into the kitchen, you spot a piece of paper and pen. Notes aren’t new between you and Joe. Sometimes you liked to leave sticky notes for him to find in random places. Sometimes Joe returned with his own to the bathroom mirror before he left for practice. Occasionally he’ll ask for a list of ingredients for a craving he’s having. Though that was becoming less frequent as he started to memorize them more. 

But this note looks hurriedly scratched, like Joe rushed to get it down. The pen’s still uncapped, having rolled a couple inches from the pages before it stopped. Like it was thrown down with little care about where it landed. Definitely rushed. You drop your bag near the sink and then slither back to the island. Hi baby, practice was a little rough today. I’m upstairs in my office. I might be short. Please grab me when you get home though. 

The pre-season games went well all things considered. There were a few kinks to work out in the rookies, but that’s to be expected. The Bengals managed to draft well, but there’d be a few moments as to be expected that were a little bumpy along the way. This weekend, this Sunday is the first Bengals game of the regular season. Joe would be flying out tomorrow for it. But for Joe to isolate makes you assume practice was bad bad. 

The lunch tin and utensils are easy enough to clean and place in the drying rack—a task you know Joe might pout about later seeing as he usually does it for you. You slip your keys back into the dish and ease your way up the steps. You shouldn’t be scared about making too much noise. This was your home too now. But still you’re careful as you work your way up, slightly annoyed at the swish of your scrubs as you walk down the hall. There’s a learning curve you’re on now with Joe, a piece of him that you haven’t experienced yet. Mistakes are bound to happen, but you’re still careful.

Storm’s tags are a soft twinkle next to you until you pause at the office door. In college, you’d send a good luck text, that you’d be in the crowd watching. His replies always came hours to sometimes days later thanking you for them. When he went off to LSU, more of the same followed. Less of you in the crowd but still good luck text all the same.

You’re in uncharted territory now with Joe. You can tell by the games you’ve watched that things get intense. But you don’t know how short, short might be for Joe. It’s a relief to have him let you know ahead of time, so you don’t take things personal. You knock all the same and wait. Where you might peak your head through, grinning to let Joe know it’s you, this feels distinctly different. 

The door creaks open. His hair is messy, spiked in various directions probably from the numerous times his hands have run through it. His mouth is a hard line on his face for only a moment until his eyes focus on you. The line softens, just a hair, as he smiles. “Hi, baby.” 

“Hi, hon.” The two of you stand on opposite sides of the threshold. There’s no other sign that things are bad. Just the pinch of his brow, just the mess of his hair. He’s changed, probably from his shower after practice. God, you want to hug him. Want to squeeze whatever anxiety or frustrations he might have out of him. But you don’t know if he even wants that.

Until he’s threading himself around you, face buried into your neck, arms winding in and around your arms and waist. “Hi,” he whispers again, more relieved this time. You can feel him melting into you, giving and giving with each second that passes in the hug. 

You squeeze back, running a hand over his spine. “I’m sorry practice was rough.” 

“Me too.” He doesn’t offer more. 

And though you are curious, you don’t ask for more. Instead, you let Joe melt into you. “Did you eat yet?”

“No. Was waiting for you.” Joe is slow to peel away, to bring himself back to his full stature but when he does he looks more relaxed than he did when he opened the door. He doesn’t look like the Joe you’re used to seeing, but he does look better. “Storm gets very vocal if I don’t wait for you. Either because he’s protective of you and mealtimes,” Joe comments, “or because he knows he won’t get two dinners and he’s pissed.”

“I think if I were Storm my master plan would be to get two dinners too. Sounds like a real good deal for just a street cat.”

Joe only grins, not with all his teeth, but the little lift of his mouth still feels like a win. The descent back down to the kitchen is quiet with Joe leading the way. You’re hand in hand with him once you’re both on level ground. His hold feels tighter, like he’s desperate for something. Yet, this is a time you’re not sure for what. Don’t know if there’s something you can say or do that will help. 

Joe pulls out the dish for him and your leftovers, working to plate them both while you grab Storm’s food. The crack of the can is all it takes for the twinkle of his tags to hit the air again. His water bowl is still good, and there’s not a second wasted before his first bites. “How was your day?” Joe asks. Your plate goes into the microwave first--as always. 

“Fine. But it’s maybe starting to get a little awkward at the front desk.”

“People are recognizing you?”

“They are,” you answer.  There’s only the one post you have with Joe. But it’s all that people need. No one’s been disrespectful to you yet. But you can see it, in the way patients stare at you from their seats in the lobby or when you check them in for their appointments. They do recognize it’s you. They recognize who you’re connected to, but thankfully, it’s only been the stares.

“I worried about that,” Joe comments. 

“No one’s said anything to me though.” 

“If it gets bad, please let me know.” The microwave beeps and Joe sets your plate aside before putting his in. 

This is how short it is with Joe, or at least how short it is right now. Still with care, but it’s clear by the way Joe stares down at the microwave that part of him is not with you. “Is there anything I can do? Back rub? A verbal lashing to your team? To disappear off the face of the planet?” You’d do anything Joe needed. 

His laughter is short, but his eyes crinkle. “No, baby. I’m sorry that I’m distracted, but you do not need to disappear off the face of the planet. Just trying to get my head together, that’s all.”

“It’s all going to work out. Whatever went wrong today it’s better to get it out in practice than on gameday, right? Like priming a well pump. You have to get all the gross stuff out first before you get to the good stuff.”

He takes your waist into his hands, a quick and tight squeeze at the flesh of you before his lips brush over yours, a soft kiss, one that leaves your toes still curling though. “I hope so. I hope today was priming the pump.”

“I know so,” you whisper against his lips. You both know you don’t know that but you believe it desperately, need to will it into truth for Joe. 

The rest of the evening is quiet. Joe excuses himself back to his office after dinner, with a promise to find you before he heads to bed--an early night that you’re preparing to see more often now. You slither into the bedroom to shower and change. By the time you’re done, Joe’s office door is still closed. You peer into your reading room and spot Storm perched on the catpost you acquired for him just two weeks after adopting him. It faces out into the street facing window with plenty for him to watch during the day.

You settle into the lounge chair, finding your current book on the side table where you left it a couple days ago. It’s only a couple hours that pass, enough for you to make it another three chapters into the book before there’s a knock on your open door. Joe leans into the door, the sweatpants from earlier now swapped for the red plaid pajama bottoms you’ve grown all accustomed to stealing from time to time. 

“Headed to bed?”

Joe nods at the question. “But I need my goodnight kisses, please. Unless I’m interrupting the enemies becoming lovers, or the haunted ship’s curse nearly being broken, or the guy suspected of being a vampire doing very vampire-y things and trying to lie about it, in which case I will take a number, but I will be pouty about it.”

“This one is about a haunted painting and you’re in the clear.”

“Good.”

The two of you meet halfway--you pushing up from the chair and Joe pushing off the door. Joe’s quick to cup your face and presses two-and no less than two- dramatic kisses to your lips. They echo with an exaggerated muah, muah, after each touch.

“I’ll join in another hour, two tops,” you promise, running a hand along Joe’s hip. 

Even though Joe’s known to fall asleep in mere seconds after his head hits the pillow, he still returns with, ”Don’t keep me waiting too long. The bed’s lonely without you.”

“Storm as my witness, I won’t. He, much like his dad, is very protective of bedtime.”

Joe laughs, longer and louder than previously. A sound that flutters in your chest. His nose brushes against yours as he closes in for another kiss. “I’m much more like a stepdad to him. But we’re getting better. He finds me at the door now when I come home instead of waiting just for you. It may take him like ten minutes to climb down from his little perch but he does find me.”

“I’m glad the conversations I’ve had with him are helping.”

“Me too. Enjoy the haunted painting.”

“Enjoy bed.” Joe kisses the tip of your nose, heads for the door and you can’t help the words. “Love you.”

His smile is bright, as Joe peers back through the open doorway. “Love you more.”

As the season delves in deeper, you’re starting to learn more about Joe and his moods. Fridays before games Joe’s tense, but still somewhat chatty. Saturdays for away games are much too short. You help him sometimes with his packing, if he asks for it. Though most of it is already done on Friday. You polish the necklace of yours that he wears, press a kiss to it before he leaves the house and then place it back on him. There’s little words to be spoken, focusing instead on finding the ways with actions to support him. Saturdays for home games are a wash. Joe wakes before you, like normal, but he’s elusive, in his office or in the backyard if it’s nice enough outside, but he’s gone. It’s Joe, but you can see the focus glazing over his eyes, watching the way he moves a little bit differently. 

On those home game Saturdays, you settle down with Storm in your reading room if you can’t find anything else to do that takes you out. And when you are home, you give Joe a wide berth, let him initiate conversation should he want it but otherwise you’re only around to slide him plates of food and the occasional kiss. You know when Joe wants one when he looks up at you through his lashes, a shy grin taking over his face. “I think I forgot something when I ordered,” he teases. 

“Which is what?”

“A little something sweet on the side.” And you make sure to always give him something sweet, two kisses and no less than two kisses before you slip back out of the room. 

Sundays are intense--win or lose the house is thick. With away games, you invite Robin and Jimmy over alongside your parents and together the five you watch from the big TV downstairs. Storm hides sometimes with the crowd but over the last few weeks he’s gotten better about the visitors, comes out to get a pet or two before hiding away again. You and your family, alongside Joe’s, cheer when the long shots are caught, when the touchdowns are scored, with the defensive stops the yard gains and you all swear at the terrible calls, wince at the picks. Your heart races everytime the pocket collapses, whenever Joe takes a hit. All you can think about is the knee, is the wrist, about the concussions. It always hurt before, but now it hurts twofold. You know what it would mean to Joe and you know what it means to you to see him injured. Regardless of the outcome of the games, when the evening turns into night and the door eases open, you wait at the edge of the living room for Joe.

The wins are easy. Joe eases back through the door, travel bags dropped before he can get the door shut. “Baby!” he bellows even though you’re always there, you’re always right there to wrap him up in a hug, press kiss after kiss to his cheek. 

And after the loses Joe eases through the door, travel bags still wrapped around his fingers. The door shuts and you take him into your arms, allow him to bury his head into your neck. “I’m proud of you, hon. You guys fought hard.”

Because you never need to tell Joe what wasn’t working, if the defense slacked, or the o-line didn’t hold like they needed to give Joe the time in the pocket. He already knows that. That’s not your job. Your job is to be there, for every mountain top high and every valley bottom. You take the travel bag for him, on those losses, guide him upstairs and give him a night and sometimes two to not have to do anything--you take care of the laundry, Storm’s feeding, dinner. It’s the least you can do. 

Some losses sting more so than others though. You can see the storm still raging behind his face when he walks back in after a particular grueling game against the Ravens. Too many interceptions, too few possessions, and a run game they couldn’t seem to make any breakthroughs or put a stop to leave Joe icy rather than calm and collected. The record now 7-5. Much too close for comfort at the end of Week 12, the second loss in a row and no one wants a third. 

You wait near the door, but not at it, unsure based on the singular text, Headed home now, what beholds you. The worst loss yet this season and that learning curve you’re on could still be steep. Storm waits next to you, at your feet. Joe’s inhale is sharp but you can’t tell if it’s relief or him steeling his nerves. 

“Baby,” Joe calls out, dropping his bag near the stairs. It’s rather stern but there’s a hair of something underneath it too. The kind of tilt you’ve heard before--a subtle kind of panic. 

You push off the wall, not hidden in the arch, but not immediately visible to him, even if you can see Joe. “Not a hair disturbed.”

“Good, that’s good.” 

The hug and kiss are brief and you don’t know what to say. Because you are proud of him but you know he’s not proud of his performance or the team’s performance right now. “Do you--”

“I need space,” he answers--sharply, like he was anticipating the question. 

“Yeah, okay. If you’re hungry there’s food--”

“In the fridge. I know.” It’s all he says, still rather hotly and over your words and your attempts, as he starts for the kitchen. 

You know it’s just the loss. You know it’s not you. You shouldn’t take it personal but his clipped tone and distance sting. It’s not you. Just the loss. You collect Storm from the floor and make a beeline for the stairs. It’s just the loss, you tell yourself. It’s not you. But a little bit of it feels like it might be because of you. Like maybe you should’ve left it alone sooner, left him alone sooner.

There's just a tiny squeak that echoes behind you as you work up the steps.

________________________

That’s not the kind of performance Joe expects from himself. Not the kind of game he wants to play. The anger and frustration is still sizzling under his skin. The microwave beeping irks him. The clatter of the forks as he digs one out makes his ears ache. He wants to scream again. It would disturb you and probably scare Storm so he doesn’t. But he can feel disappointment curling his fingers around the marble kitchen island. 

“Can’t have another week like that,” he mutters to himself before stabbing at the chicken. The fork hits with a sharp clink as he works mouthful after mouthful of the food down. 

When he turns to face the dishwasher, the magnetic sign is flipped to clean. “Motherfucker,” he huffs. But it’s always flipped to clean on Sundays, because you always run it on Sundays after hosting. And you’re usually the one to hand wash his plate after he gets home should he eat something. Joe scrapes the plate, rinses it, and sets it into the sink. A little too rough and his heart races at the clacking. That’s one of the plates you thrifted and Joe wouldn’t even begin to know where or how to get a replacement.

“Damn it, please don’t be broken.” Thankfully there’s no chips or cracks in the red plate. 

That’s the kind of game where there’s no solace even in performance. There was no hard fight. It was an absolute terrible shutout. The kind of game that in little league would be stopped well before it’s even over just so it wouldn’t demoralize the kids. But Joe’s no kid. All he has is disappointment. The utter disgust at his performance, at the team’s showing. 

He shoves off from the counter, desperate for a hot shower, and silence to seethe in. His bag is still next to the steps when Joe returns to the foyer. Joe nearly walks past it, one foot hovering over the first step. But the sight of the bag still on the ground pauses him. You always take his bag for him and at the very least put it into the bedroom. He usually insists on unpacking it himself unless he’s dead tired. But you’ll run the laundry, wait specifically for him to get back to do it on Mondays too. 

But you always take his bag. 

Yet, his bag is still next to the steps. Another pang in his chest as he recounts how he’d interrupted you twice when all you were trying to do was be there for him after a rather poor and damning performance. “Shit,” he sighs, frustration simmering for a second and now, now he’s panicked. “No, Joe, we’re not doing that. Not to them.” 

Joe leaves the bag behind and takes the steps two at a time. He can’t take his frustration out on you. It’s not fair. He knows better than that. Promised himself he’d not let you become the punching bag because of a game--win or lose, it’s not you that should be taking the repercussions.

Joe checks the bedroom first, but you’re not there. The bed’s still made up, his pj’s rests at the bottom--like always, but there’s no sign of you from the adjacent bathroom. No sign of you in the walk in closet. You have to still be in the house. Joe prays you are. Did he hear you go upstairs?

He continues down the wall to your reading room. The lights are off, so Joe flicks them on. Storm’s not on the perch. You’re not in the lounge chair. But you’re almost always there.  The house isn’t that big. And he definitely heard you go upstairs, the middle steps squeak just a little, just a hair if you step on them just right. He heard that squeak. He’s sure of it. You’re still home. 

His office door is open, but the room is empty. Not that you’d ever really go in there, but now it doesn’t matter about too much logic. It just matters that he finds you. That he apologizes for his actions. Joe continues down to the upper floor guest bedroom and just before he crosses the threshold Joe hears the softest sniffle. 

His shoulders drop at the sound, relief easing into his chest alongside regret. “Baby, I’m coming in,” Joe warns. “You probably don’t like me right now and I don’t fault that.” 

You sit up against the side of the bed, knees pulled up to your chest. A shadow elongates, the golden tags around the neck letting Joe know it’s Storm who stretches up, like he’s trying to get your attention. But you don’t give it to him. 

Joe settles onto the carpeted floor next to you, a foot or so of space between you, but close enough to you that he can still feel the warmth of you bleeding into his skin. He keeps his voice low, soft in the still room. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier, for interrupting you. That was rude of me.”

He’s met with silence. 

“You were just trying to be there, like you always are. I’m upset with myself but I shouldn’t have let myself get that snappy at you. Not when I know I can communicate better than that.”

“How’s the plate?” you ask, head turning now to watch him. There’s slivers of light from the blinds and you get lost in it visually, minus your eyes and the parts of your face lowly lit by the moon.

“You heard that, huh?”

“Kind of hard not to hear it.”

“I’m sorry about that. Plate’s fine, but I’m more concerned about you.”

“I didn’t intend to be in the way.”

It’s not lost on Joe that you don’t talk about how you felt. And he logs it away for later, to talk to you about it after he’s regulated himself. Because your feelings don’t matter less than his. You should have the space to say how you feel to him, especially if he’s the reason for it. “You weren’t in the way. You’re never in the way. I’m frustrated with myself, with how I played today. But I have communicated that better in the past and I should’ve communicated that better tonight too. I am so sorry for hurting you or offending you. I think I would feel offended if the roles were reversed.”

“I know every game is important. You want to do well, but I would really appreciate a better heads up.”

You’re not asking the world of Joe. He can deliver on that. He can communicate better. “Give the old wizard another try? He’ll do better next time. Promise.” 

Your tuft of laughter is soft. “Yeah, I can give him another try.”

He finds your hand and pulls you into him. Joe can make out the bridge of your nose in the dark and places a kiss on it. The violent buzzing under his skin is a little quieter than before but it still thrums, lets him know that he’s still in no position to want to talk, to want to stay around you while he’s in such a foul mood. Joe’s grateful for your patience and grace though. “Thank you.”

Your fingers are gentle over his jaw, like you’re counting each inch of it. “I don’t know what to do to make it better, hon. But I want to.”

“I know you do, baby. I don’t think this is something that you can make better. It’s on me. It’s on the team. We have to figure it out. And we will. But right now, I just feel like I’m on the edge of something not nice and I don’t want a repeat of earlier. I just need some time, space to clear my head. This isn’t on you.”

“Okay. But if you ever find out what I can do, you’ll let me know?”

You won’t let it go, won’t let him go. But none of this is about letting go. “How about this? You get ready for bed, okay? Get it all nice and toasty in the sheets, and when I’m more composed, I’ll join you. Think you can do that for me?”

“You do hate cold sheets.”

“I do,” Joe laughs as he brushes a thumb over the apple of your cheek. 

The thrum quiets just a little bit more but it’s still lurking. This isn’t the kind of noise you’ll quiet fully. You’ll dull it but Joe needs to sit with this, feel every ounce of it before he can truly take it apart and analyze it. This season is vital, more so than Joe wants to admit, but the franchise needs more winds in its sails than it has, even Joe knows it. This is do or die. And Joe’s not going to fucking die. That much he is sure of. But there’s you, in his arms, who wants to make it better for him. He knows you would if you could. 

Joe presses another kiss to your lips, whispers right up against them so full against his. “Cold sheets are the worst kind of sheets there are. Second worst only to an empty bed at home. So full bed and warm sheets, that’s what I need you to do. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.” 

Joe lets you peel away from him with one last kiss, but stays seated on the floor, bringing his own knees up, feet planted wide on the floor, and wrapping his arms around the joints. His fingers thread through. The night is still thick around him, even with the bleeding light of the hallway.

This is really do or die. But they’d been doing so well, a four game winning streak all toppled with two games. A piss poor performance. They’d gotten too comfortable with their slow paced game openings--throwing up field goals and a touchdown here and there to get momentum before really sealing the deal in the second half. A total opposite from the season previous, where they needed to open fast and hard. 

Because slow and steady gave both offensive and defensive moments to breathe. Joe’s not afraid of this career, knows that every time he pads up there’s no telling what will happen. But part of him is more anxious than before, if he takes too big of a blow, how he’ll mentally handle that kind of challenge again. Yet, the reality never changes, that there’s no telling what each game holds. Each time Joe pads up, he is truly at the mercy of fate. 

But even if it’s important, this isn’t the version of himself that he wants to bring home to you. The kind of man that’s too snappy to see what is that you’re trying to do. This is a learning curve for Joe, navigating the high emotions of his job up against you. But you deserve someone that’s willing to do that kind of hard work. 

The shower starts up behind him. The first sign of life from you since you left the guest bedroom. It eases part of the ache in his chest to hear the roaring sound. In the air, around the noise from the shower, is the twinkle of the cat tags and something bumps into him—soft. 

Joe looks over  to see Storm, his yellow gaze sharp in the night. His gaze unwavering stares back at Joe. And Joe can only stare back at the cat. Unsure what might be happening, what the little creature wants or needs from Joe. Considering how attached the animal is to you. Before Joe can speak, Storm meows, once, and sharp—a reprimand or a warning Joe’s not sure. But the sound comes either way and it sounds like it’s meant to say something along the lines of, not my human. 

“It won’t happen again, Storm."

Meow. Sharp again but a tad softer. Something to Joe that feels like understanding, and grace that he doesn’t feel he deserves but he’s relieved to have from both you and Storm. The two of you can figure something out, find a way to communicate through this together. A short hand, something easy and quick that doesn’t require too much length deposition. 

Like a scale, or a color system. And there’s Storm’s steady gaze still locked in on Joe. Joe nods. “Loud and clear, buddy.”

The cat turns from Joe’s side. Storm’s shadow slinks away over the wall into the hallway. Joe’s not sure how long he sits on the floor, staring up and out into the slightly opened blinds. But it’s long enough for his butt to go numb for his knees to ache just a little when he finally gets up. Because it’s just one game. Come Tuesday the team will have time to talk it through, reassess where they all faltered and how to tighten up for their next game. It’s just one game, in a bigger picture. There’s still time to turn the tides, still time to get it right. 

And get it right, they will. 

Joe finds the bedroom mostly dark after he collects his bag from downstairs, the bathroom light cuts in just a little so he can see after turning off the lights in the hallway. Under the sheets, you lay on your satin pillowcase, facing Joe’s side, like you might’ve waited for him to show up. Yet, you couldn’t escape the clutches of sleep long enough to keep up. Joe slips into the bathroom, brushes his teeth, washes over his face before putting on the pj's and slithers into the sheets, a chad chilly, but as he gets closer to you, they warm. 

You burrow into him, pressing your face into his neck. Joe exhales at the realization that you still seek out his comfort. Tomorrow, Joe promises, as he settles his arm around you, catching sight of just one of Storm’s peeled back eyes from the cat’s spot curled up in the back of your knees, he’s also going to do right by you. 

“Like a scale,” Joe concludes, setting his clothes for practice tomorrow out flat on top of the built-in drawers for the closet. 

You sit perched on the bench in the middle of the room. Storm’s somewhere--Joe can hear the tags in the closet, but the cat’s a master of slipping into the lower racks especially of your clothes and hiding away. Joe called your office early in the morning to let them know you weren’t feeling well, which was a white lie, but he wanted to spend his day off with you, to make up for what he did last night. You relented with only a few bats of his lashes. 

“So, like last night would’ve been a 9?” you ask. 

He nods. The scale starts at 5 and goes to 9, the larger the number the more upset he is post game. 1-4 are too small, emotional states that Joe knows he can easily communicate through and aren’t worth including on the scale. But he’ll never hit a 10. Will make sure of it. Doesn’t want to ever bring that kind of emotional state home to you. “Yeah, it would’ve been.”

“And last week would’ve been what? Or would it not have made the scale?”

“Five, tops. But no higher than that.”

“What should I do in a 7 and up scenario?”

The first loss hadn’t been bad. It stung, undoubtedly. But Joe really did just want to come home, curl up in your arms. He was pissed but knew that at the end of it the day, there would always be another game to play. Another chance to win. But the jump from a 5 to a 7 is a steep one. 

It’s a fair question, one that Joe chewed over and over in the quiet morning before bringing the idea to you. He settles onto the bench next to you, tracing over the bumps of your knuckles. “A hug and a kiss is always welcomed. We have a solid ritual post game of that. But I think a hug and a kiss is the start and end of it for a 7 or higher. I know you’ll want to do something, but if I’m that upset, there’s not much you can do.”

“Got it.”

“I’m going to ask this and I want you to be totally honest with me, okay?”

“I don’t like the sound of that question. But okay, I’ll be honest.”

“How did my actions make you feel last night?” It’s awkward on his tongue. But this part is important. It’s easy to sweep under the rug. Easy to pretend like just because he apologized and promised that he wouldn’t do it again that it’s all better. But it matters to Joe that he hears what his actions did. That he understands why he’s promising not to do it again. 

“Oh, Joe.”

It’s just an inch, maybe even less than that that you start to pull away from his hold but Joe tightens it just a hair, pulls you back closer to him. “No, no, I need to hear it. Please.”

“And you want me to be honest?”

He nods. “I do.”

“We have a plan now.”

“And I still want to hear how you felt.”

The two don’t negate each other. Not for Joe. A battle of wills ensues--you pleading with him with no words and Joe firm in his decision. He has to hear it. Has to know exactly what his actions can do.

"Please," Joe tries again, not demanding, but incessant.

You exhale before you speak, a long three seconds by Joe's count. “I don’t think I was offended. Or maybe I was just a little. It hurt but I think I was also a little scared. That somehow I’d make things worse without realizing it. I tried not to take it personally though, but yeah, it just hurt mostly.”

Scared. The word guts him, chokes his inhale because Joe never wants you to be scared of him. Even though you’ve qualified the statement, made it clear that your fear was about not upsetting him more unintentionally, the trust still remains. You were scared. And of him in some way. 

There’s no words, nothing for Joe to say for a moment, but he inhales again to give himself the space to find something to say.

“Look at me,” he starts, scared himself to have you face him but needing it anyway. The second your eyes land on his face he sees it--the part of you that worried about him, that worried about you, that’s still back there in that moment. 

“No, don’t do that. Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” you warn. 

“I never, and I mean never, want you to be scared of me again. I’m so fucking sorry I made you feel that way.”

“I wasn’t scared of you. I was scared for you.”

But to Joe, it all sounds the same. That he could manage to do anything but make you feel anything but loved and cared for, and safe. If he could slay a thousand suns, just to make you feel safe again with him, he would. 

“I’m so sorry.” The words leave him choked, the tear stings behind his eye. And all Joe can do is apologize. He can only hope you forgive him. 

Your palms press firmly into his cheeks. “I accept your apology, hon. We have the scale now. I know what to do. I know it’s not personal. We’re prepared now. Don’t do this to yourself. I do forgive you.”

But he’s already done it. He can’t take it back. Life doesn’t come with a rewind button. “I’m so sorry.” That's all he can say. Those are only words he has, even as you bring him into your neck. Even as you squeeze at his shoulders, whisper into his ear that you forgive him. The only thing Joe can do is apologize and hope he never has to apologize for something like this again. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The stadium’s electric. It’s to be expected, considering the rivalry that’s about to play out on the field, between the Bengals and the Browns. The noise and the energy is loud and thick. The thing that you’re not prepared for that you wish you had considered is just how often the heads turn in your direction. It is your first game out in public since you started dating Joe and since the campaign went public. You’ve wanted to be there. Cheering for Joe at home doesn’t scratch the same itch as being in the stadium, but it’s been a balancing act of how much both you and Joe are comfortable with being out in the public. 

Yet, after two rough games back to back, you realize it’s more important now more than ever that you are here, in the stadium. It means a lot to you to stand by Joe, even after the stumbles, because you know this is a team that has good bones in it. A unified front. And it probably means more to Joe that you’re here too, after the personal blunders too. After the way last Sunday night went down. 

Robin warns you that you probably shouldn’t walk the floor by yourself just yet, but the box feels too far removed, too stuffy. There’s celebrities that you recognize walking about. They’re polite, but you feel like you can’t exactly relax like you want. It just feels a little too stiff. You want a little bit of air, and maybe a hotdog. You’ve been normal for so long; it’s hard to understand that you’re not as normal as you were before. But you can feel the stares, feel the eyes that look at you twice, see the way some people freeze when they spot you. 

“Oh my god, you’re the DM!”

The shout comes from your right and you turn to see a cluster of people. They look young, maybe you and Joe’s age or a little younger. But the two girls point you out and the guys they’re with pause, brows knitted together until they get a deeper look, and even they go wide eyed. 

“From the campaign, that’s you, right?” There’s one girl, half a step ahead of the group. Her brunette hair tied back and away from her face. In the bitter edge of the cold, she smiles brightly at you. 

You nod. Unsure if you should step out of line, but you really do want this hotdog. “It’s me.”

“We loved the campaign! So good. Excited for season two!”

“The back-to-back reveal was insane,” one of the guys agrees. 

None of you move from your spots. They don’t move from the stairs and you don’t move out of line. The conversation floats over the cheer and roar of the crowd. “Thanks, I appreciate that.” The entire group is dawned in Bengals gear, you see Joe’s number on a couple, one of Ja’Marr, and one more for Mike Holton. “You guys have great taste,” you remark, pointing to the jerseys. 

It earns you a laugh. “Thanks. And totally didn’t mean to interrupt, just wanted to say that I enjoyed it.”

“I appreciate it, truly.” The group turns from you then, back to the stairs and carries on down them. You move up in the line. 

It’s a painless ordering process to get your hotdog with toppings and a drink. But those eyes are all still following. You can’t hear exactly what’s being said, but you can see it, the way people watch and whisper. It’d gotten a little intense at work once the season started, enough so that you’ve been tempted to bring it up to Joe, talk about how you might need to move fields or find something else to do in the interim. 

It’s been isolated just to work. You don’t check your Instagram now at all--have asked all your friends just to text you directly with whatever they want to share so you’re limited on the time you spend up there. You don’t really want to see whatever’s been said, the good or the bad. But now in public, especially at the stadium, you’re realizing that maybe that’s been a good move to stay off the platform. In public, there's really no filter.

You make it back to the box in one piece, a heavy exhale leaving your chest as you lean into the wall next to the door. A lot’s changing for you. Even if you don’t see, don’t interact with the changes all the time. But you’re not normal anymore. The descending realities leave you stuck here, in the in-between. Between normal and not normal. Between anonymity and fame. Only relevant because who you love, but knowing that your life will never go back to what it was like before. 

“Okay over there?” 

You peel back your eyes to see your dad, just a few feet from you. “I’m good. Just a lot of eyeballs.”

“Well, I can tell everyone in here to close their eyes if it helps.”

Your laughter is soft but you cross the room to him. “I don’t think that would go over well, but thanks.”

Robin smiles up at you when you settle back down into your chair. “I’ve got a good feeling about today.”

She says it every time, but you don’t point that out. Just nod. “Let’s see how good,” you return like always. 

Your mother snuggles in closer to your dad. “I’m not built for this cold weather.”

“And you’ve lived here your whole life,” he laughs, but wraps his arm around her shoulders. 

“Don’t make me have to hurt you know. Our kid over there knows a few bigger guys.”

Your dad looks over with a roll of his eyes. But it’s how it should be. How you wished the last fifteen years went. But you’re glad for the memories now. Know that for the holidays, he’ll be gone to visit his kids in South Carolina for a few days and you hope they have this too, moments that they can steal for the joy, knowing it won’t be years until they get them again. 

Joe’s eyes look like they could cut steel, when the team captains march up the field, ready for the coin toss. He approaches the captains of the Browns, ensuring to speak with them all, but you can see the resolve painting his face. There’s the rivalry of course. But Joe’s always been able to carry a bit of levity during the coin toss. Ja’Marr and Tee stand to the right of him. You see it in their gazes too, the kind of cutting look that says all bite and no bark. The Browns take the coin flip, but elect to have the Bengals receive. And it’s only a flash, the cut of Joe’s eyes towards the camera, a quick four or five seconds, but it is ice across your skin when he spikes the lens.

“The Browns have got another thing coming,” you whisper, sharing a bucket of popcorn now with your mother. 

“You saw it too?” Robin asks, turning in her chair to face you. “Is everything alright?”

You and Joe are fine now. After spending Monday together, talking through what led to Joe’s icy behavior and working a plan puts you both on the same playing field, your routines have settled back to normal. Joe greeted you at the door with Storm at his feet. You two shared dinners together like usual. There were laughs, easy kisses, desperate kisses. You read chapters aloud to him in bed as he fell asleep. He loaded up the dishwasher without prompting, washed your utensils and containers from your lunch, slipped you singles in a small ziplock sandwich bag to use at the laundromat across the street from you for something sweet, and left notes stuck to the bathroom mirror for you after he left for the day. 

It’s all been fine.

“Yeah, things are good.”

But you and Robin share a knowing look, that if things were fine, if they were good, that something was still fueling a fire for Joe. You two look back to the field, watch various camera angles spread over the stadium as the sea of the fans erupt for their teams. A camera passes over the offensive line and Tee works at something along Joe’s neck, beneath the pads and then gives him a thumbs up. 

You good, you just barely put it together as you read Tee’s lips and the thumbs up. 

The first snap always feels a little nerve wracking. You know these first few drives set the tempo, telegraph at least for a small bit of what to expect. But the snaps are fast. The offensive line is holding and holding, with just enough time for Joe to send it sailing, at least a fifteen to twenty yard toss. Tee’s swift, up and down with the ball in hand, running it for an additional 12 yards on top of the first down. 

Where the Bengals had been taking things slow, working up to the field goal, this first possession results in a full drive, all the way down to the endzone. An electric first five minutes of the quarter. The extra point kick sails through the uprights with ease. 7-0. 

The defense is shaking on its first round of play. Though the Browns aren't successful in points, they do make two first downs in their drive. A small wobble, one that you know they can easily recover from. Joe’s on the sidelines, pats and taps on helmets and pads. You don’t know what he’s saying. But he looks electric, a bounce in him that most definitely hadn’t been there in games prior. 

The second offensive possession is fast, resulting in another touchdown. You watch Ja’Marr, Tee, and Andrei catch pass after pass. Each ball spirals around itself like a bullet. There’s a kind of power behind each of Joe’s toss, even the shorter ones, that makes you wince as they’re caught, the kind of passes that are direct, calculated, and deadly. 14-0. 

The Browns manage a return, to bring the score to 14-3. The commentators seem to be at a loss of words with each possession. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen the Bengals firing like this on all cylinders since their 2022 run. Burrow is delivering bomb after bomb today. I-I don’t know what happened after that two game losing streak, but it’s clear the Bengals, in the midst of their own jungle, their home stadium, are hungry for a win.”

“The Bengals defense did start shaky there, and has its moments. We can’t discount that, but the Browns are going to get desperate if these early possessions are any indication. If we just look at the length of time each quarterback had the ball today just in this first first quarter, Burrow’s had nearly double if not double and a half the time. I mean, we were all there for Burrow’s 2019 Heisman run. We saw him in 2022. But he’s playing today like the kid back then, still fighting to prove his name, prove his worth.”

17-6. You push to the edge of your seat, watching, remembering the icy look, noticing Ja’Marr’s and Tee’s equally deadly gaze. Joe is fighting for something. Redemption from the last two games is obvious. But there’s something else, something that matters more than just the game. 

In the second quarter, you’re halfway expecting for the team to let up for them to ease up off the gas on the offensive game. But Joe calls for a quick snap, can tell by how fast the ball arches up. Another touchdown added to the field goal from the last part of the first quarter. 24-6. This is not about letting off the gas you realize. This is about leaving nothing in the wake.

As the second half starts, the ticking of the clock down from the third quarter might well be the ticking clock from the first. The Bengals are not letting up. Not for a single second. Though the Browns manage a touchdown, their momentum doesn’t outpace the Bengals, leaving the board at 34-13 by the end of the third quarter. 

Joe takes the snap, drops into the pocket. There’s two defenders on Ja’Marr, and one of Tee. In the green and white sea below you, you watch Joe find his receiver, arm cocked back. The offensive line crumbles just a little, the left edge of the pocket melting, the orange jerseys seemingly swallowed up by the Browns in white. 

It doesn’t seem to matter. Joe fires off his shot, ball spiraling deep down the field. A couple of the Browns defenders who have broken through slow their run, clear to them now that the ball’s been released. Then Joe’s down. Hit coming full force. One hand coming up near his neck and you can’t call a face grab, not from your vantage point. But you do know the hit’s not legal, not anymore. You don’t even attempt to log the name of the defender who took the tackle. If you do it’ll boil your blood. 

Andrei catches the ball, gaining another fifteen years on top of the first down. You can hear the silence though the space where there would be a cheer in the crowd. There’s a hush. Joe lays there, after falling onto his shoulder and then rolls his back. You push up from the chair, watching, waiting. “Please get up, please get up,” you whisper. 

There’s two giant heaves from Joe. You watch the rise and fall of his chest. “Where’s the flag?” Jimmy cries out. 

“Refs, c’mon!” your dad shouts. “It’s right there in front of you!” 

But the rest of the shouts are muffled by the rushing of your heart, the blood stampeding through your veins and ears now. “Please get up, please get up.” 

Joe turns back to his side, then raises to his knees, fists pressed into the dirt. “A hard, and if I do say so myself, rather late tackle there by the Browns against Burrow.”

“Get up, Joe. Please get up.” It’s a mantra over your lips. You’d even go so far as to call it a prayer. 

The ref calls are always seemingly shaky against Joe, sometimes called and sometimes not. And time’s moving too slow already as it is, watching Joe on the field. “Oh, a little delayed, but we’ve got a flag.”

The flag drops to the ground, a yellow dot to you. But you can only watch Joe. “Get up, hon. Please. I need you to get up. Just be okay.”

Joe reaches up for something around his neck again, thighs now digging into the cleats. Whatever it is, he seemingly finds it. His exhale is visible even with the pads and probably more so visible with them. Tee and Ja’Marr scramble over. OBJ’s already there to help Joe up. And you can only watch, try to see if there’s any sign of pain. The team starts to huddle around him but Joe’s nodding after he stands. 

“Roughing the passer,” the referee calls out over the mic. “15 yard penalty. Automatic first down.”

The claps erupt from around you as Joe’s seemingly back up on his feet. But you catch it, the quick brace against his knees, another big inhale. “Looks like Burrow might’ve had the wind knocked out of him there for a second. But he’s up and that’s a massive penalty in the Bengals favor.”

The rest of the game passes in front of you in a bit of a blur. Because you’re only focus is Joe. You watch Coach Taylor talk to Joe on the side--you imagine it’s about Joe sitting out for just long enough to get examined--the head shake paired with the shrug from Joe confirms that he won’t be doing that. You keep waiting. There’s no limp. He doesn’t seem to wince or reach for anything that looks like an injury, just plays, when on the sidelines, at a thin gold chain--your gold chain. The one you kiss before every game for him. It dazzles now in the sunlight in view of the camera.

Joe runs his fingers side to side, around the chain, watches as a near perfect shadow to Coach Taylor for a moment to what's happening on the field. He presses a kiss to the chain, before slipping away out of view of the camera. But you can see him, watch as he heads directly for the rest of the team. There’s more words, even if you can’t hear them. A row of fistbumps as he goes. Every offensive lineman nods in return at the words. 

When the two minute warning is called, it’s 41-13 in favor of the Bengals. The Browns have possession but you’ve witnessed a team possessed, a machine ready to seek and destroy anything and anyone in its way. The penalty put them in deep into scoring range and you’re not even sure they needed it. But it did massively secure their lead. You wait to see how this possession goes, if the Browns will be able to respond, but they can’t. The Bengals hold the line and the Browns final drive ends with a sack and an overturn back to the Bengals. 

The clock drops down and down a second at a time. There’s mercy with the last minute on the clock. Joe lets the second string quarterback take the knee twice to drop the play clock all the way to zero. 

41-13 echoes in the lights as the final score. 

“I need to get downstairs.”

“There’s going to be a crowd right now. We’ll get down there after--” Jimmy starts and then stops as he turns to face you. It’s not an ask, not some kind of fleeting concern. You can feel how hard a line of your mouth has settled into. “I’ll go with you.”

The two of you, plus a security guard walk in silence. The sound the echoes around you is from the fans, the crowd is loud. It’s not anger that you feel. It’s worry. It’s the absolute panicked need to make sure that he’s okay, that he’s not sacrificing himself for some kind of redemption. So you stalk your way through Paycor Stadium, Jimmy at your side, as the rest of the crowd celebrates the victory. 

“He’s tough,” Jimmy offers. 

“He is.” Your voice is rough to your own ears, thick with the tears that haven’t burned your eyes yet. 

“Something happened, didn’t it?”

You can only nod. Your throat is tightening up on you. Because now as you walk through the hallways all you have is the fear again. The sight of Joe splayed out on that field with the two giant breaths he took. “I don’t want anything to happen to him.” You don’t want Joe to happen to him, don’t want him to get so blinded by his own desire.

“It’s alright. You take some hits in football. I am glad it’s you, that’s trying to look out for my boy.”

The two of you pause for just a moment. A blink brings Jimmy into focus. You knew his family liked you. But that feels different, that feels like it’s deeper than just approval. You wouldn’t have assumed so earlier. But now it’s staring at you in the face. Just how much you mean to the family. Jimmy’s smile is a little shy. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

He nods. “Yeah, besides Joe’s hardheaded when he wants to be. But you know that already. You take lumps in football. It’s how the game is played.”

The only thing you can do is nod before you resume the pursuit back through Paycor. Getting hit is how the game is played. It’s how every game is played but goddamn, it doesn’t stop your heart from racing in your chest. The speakers are loud around you, broadcasting the audio from the field still.

“Joe, that was an incredible performance by you today. Tell us, after your previous two losses, what is it that changed for you all tonight?”

His voice is pitchy, still clearly reeling from all the effort in the game. “We came hungry today. Those two losses lit a fire under us because each and every one of us had a reason not to leave anything on the field today. We know that we’re built for greatness and it’s time for us to play like it.”

“You took a pretty heavy hit today. Took you a second to get back onto your feet. You had the entire stadium on pins and needles. How are you feeling?”

“Uh, yeah, there’s always the potential for hits when you suit up. It’s just the way of the game. I’m serious about staying healthy through this season so I’m definitely going to have a more thorough check after this. But you don’t put these pads on if you’re not ready for some blows.”

Ja’Marr comes through the tunnel first, his grin faltering just for a second when he spies you, helmet in his hands. It doesn’t stop him from wrapping you up in a side hug. “Twin, he’s good. It’s all good. Turn that frown upside down, will ya?”

“Congrats on the win.”

Tee comes up behind Ja’Marr. “Let’s fucking go, man!” The slap of the pads echoes in your ears and when Tee sees you, he grins even brighter. “Cuz, didn’t know you’d be let down to come see us.”

“Surprise,” you return, hoping your smile looks more genuine than it feels. “Y’all played great today.”

“Your mans was up our ass at practice. I think he could tell what we had for breakfast four days ago. But it paid off. Don’t be too hard on him,” Tee grins, electing to for a fist bump. “Because I know that look anywhere. That’s the ‘Pissed Off Black Parent’ look. I done seen it too many times to want to stick around to see what happens.”

The jab does make you laugh-a genuine, from your gut burst of laughter- and Tee salutes you before easing away. “I’ll keep that suggestion in mind. Congrats!”

“Thank you, kindly!” Tee calls back, but continues on further inside.

“But seriously, don’t ride Joe too hard,” Ja’Marr comments. 

“I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“That’s fair. But I need you to convince him to come out with me. I’ll make sure he’s home by his bedtime.” It’s the last he says before Ja’Marr heads deeper now into the building, no doubt making his way towards the locker room. 

Other players wave as they pass, some slide in for a quick side hug. But it feels like an eternity has passed and still no Joe, until you spot the shadow of him following in behind Cam. You’re easing closer before you realize it, a step at a time until Joe’s right in front of you. 

“I’m fine. Promise.” It’s the first thing Joe says, like he can read the thoughts behind your head. 

His hair is damp with sweat, like the rest of him probably beneath the pads even in the cold Ohio afternoon. But you hold his face in your hands. “You guys played like mad men today. And I’m so incredibly proud. But I’m also shaking because I can’t stop seeing you stretched out on that field.”

“No, baby, none of that.” His cold fingers wrap around your wrists--an all too immediate reminder that he’s still here. That he’s upright, and walking. “I’m too tough for one hit.”

“Your dad said something similar.”

“He’s a smart guy,” Joe laughs. “Taught me everything I know. Walk with me, okay? Just walk with me.”

Joe feels massive in the pads, even as the two of you walk down the rest of the corridor, the gear makes you feel small next to him. His hand warms just a little, or maybe you just get used to the cold. But it’s not a terribly far walk before you take in what’s around you. The cameras that are most definitely pointed at you and Joe. 

“Give us a minute,” Joe commands, and it’s enough for the flashes and the lenses to turn tail. Even when he’s sure it’s mostly clear, Joe tucks you into a further corner, deeper and hopefully away from the press. Now, in the secluded corner, Joe’s grin turns a hair smug. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re worried about me.”

You squeeze at the hand still wrapped around yours. “You should know better.”

“If I need a note, I’ll get someone to write it. Signed by the doc and everything.”

“I just needed to see you. I don’t mean to interfere.” And you don’t. But you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in Joe he’s not just fighting for a game. The icy look that was there just a few hours ago.

“No, you’re not interfering. But you are looking at me like you have something else you want to say.”

“Would your reason for how you played today have anything to do with what happened last week?”

“Honest answer?” 

“Honest answer,” you confirm. 

“It did. I realized that I want to come home to you as the best version of myself. Which means I have to do whatever it takes. Now, I can’t control how every game goes. I can’t force that outcome. But I’m doing everything that’s within my realm of control. Going to show up here on this field at my best every fucking time because it’s not just about me anymore. It's about you and us now.”

“You’ve always been one hell of a smooth talker, you know that.” 

“No,” Joe laughs, “I’m just being honest.’”

And he’s real, still whole in front of you. He wasn’t carted off. But you see even more of the man Joe’s become. Someone who’s not running away from accountability. “I love you.” You love the man he is, the man who he is becoming, the person who wants nothing more than your happiness.

His cheeks turn pink. The warmth of the air finally started to turn back to the low olive tone, but the tips of his ears go pink again too alongside his cheeks and you know that he’s just a tiny bit flustered. He ducks his head for just a second before looking back at you. “I love you more.”

“Burrow, I’m being nice because I like them, but let’s wrap it up.” It’s Coach Taylor’s voice booming down the hall. 

You can’t see past Joe, who’s body and pads block the way. But you can tell by the tone it’s urgent. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“I gotta go, but I’ll see you back at home, okay?”

You nod. There’s two squeezes--one from Joe, one from you-- and he starts to pull away. “Ja’Marr’s going to ask you about going out. Just as a heads up.”

His groan echoes well before he starts the jog down to the locker room. “Only if I get to bring you as my hot date,” he shouts back at you. “Don’t make me suffer alone.”

And you won’t. You won’t let Joe suffer alone. That’s not a thing you’d ever do to Joe, as long as he’s yours and you're his. 

[astradyke]

hey so I've been a casual Dan & Phil fan for years but never really a part of the fandom. Recently started scrolling thru the tag and like...did I miss something? Have they actually said for real for real that they dated? Like I'm queer and tbh 2 gay guys living together for that long have to at least done *something* but I'm not an rpf person (no shade) but I do wanna be up to date on the Dan and Phil facts (phacts?) Obviously they're some kinda soulmates but tbh I know some queerplatonic soulmates who aren't *together* so idk if that's them or not. Am I missing receipts or is their relationship presumed given their whole situationship? Genuinely asking and no shade to your shipping intended.

hiya! i'll try to be succinct here but i might totally miss some things as a heads up :P

In Basically I'm Gay on the Daniel Howell channel, the same monologue that led to the description of them as soulmates also included the statement: "And that was when, through the magic of the Internet, I met Phil. And obviously we were more than friends, but it was more than just romantic [...] The relationship we formed, at that point, was something that I needed in my life." Despite "relationship" being a neutral, versatile term, the preceding sentence confirms they've been in an explicitly romantic relationship. along with that explicit confirmation, we also know from several other relics from 2009-2011 in particular that the two were at the very least actively flirting (I can retrieve a few formsprings for you that point to this if u want just lmk!). Additionally, in 2010, Phil made a privated video addressed to Dan that explicitly confirms a romantic relationship; this video was unprivated via a YouTube glitch in September 2011 and circulated heavily in late 2012. it was a serious incident that outed them and thus people don't talk much about it. I've never seen it in full-- it's pretty much off the Internet entirely due to copyright strikes-- and I really solely bring it up for context that they were dating at that period in time.

Basically I'm Gay only indicates a past romantic relationship, leaving their current one ambiguous, and both Dan and Phil's respective coming out videos state that they want to keep their personal dating lives private (both of these videos were released in 2019). Since then, though, there's one other explicit confirmation of their relationship-- I had a difficult time hunting down this exact interview in entirety, but my lovely mutual freckliedan helped me find the relevant screenshot:

[ID: In bold, the interviewer's text says: "So, just like a normal gay couple then?" Below, Dan's response is not in bold, and says, "Basically, yeah."]

I was able to find another screenshot at this post as well, which has the actual context confirming that they were discussing Phil previous to this. Now, obviously, this interviewer was a little forward in their questions, so I understand any reluctance in considering Dan's response-- however, Dan is a professional, and if he was sincerely uncomfortable with this line of questioning, I have faith in his ability to avoid answering it altogether. I therefore assume he knew what he was doing, and that this can be taken as a valid statement. This was from 2023 iirc.

Both of these excerpts-- from Basically I'm Gay and from this interview-- do suggest that Dan and Phil have a romantic relationship. On top of both of these more concrete confirmations, there's a lot more information/statements they've made public that corresponds with a romantic relationship, even if none of them are technically exclusive to romantic relationships.

A brief list: They've lived together for approximately 13-15 years, and bought a house together with a mortgage (for brevity's sake, I'll exclude other things that kind of pair with this). They make frequent sex jokes on their channel, several of which stating things about the other's sexual preferences. They recently went on holiday together, just the two of them, and given the tourism biz and how they discussed the holiday it seems like they were in a place intended for couples. Phil's sister in law, Cornelia, refers to Dan as an uncle to her child. They use pet names for each other. They frequently joke with the phandom, riffing off of jokes about their relationship (reacting to posts saying they are in a situationship, making a joke about having a joint toilet, etc.) This is most arguable, but it's highly likely that they share a bed as well (again, going off of the images/videos they've shown us of 'Dan's bedroom'). Lastly, other interviews with Dan include him being highly verbose about his relationship with Phil, but he's referred to him briefly as his "husband" in a long list of other words like "soulmates" and "just mates", ending with "who the fuck knows?", in one past interview (I have a picture of this but I can't attach it rn I can find it if you'd like though!)

It's not impossible that Dan and Phil's relationship isn't currently romantic, and even operating off of the assumption that it is, there's information we don't know about that (whether they're monogamous or polyamorous, for example, or whether or not they share a bed). It honestly just seems unlikely that their relationship is queerplatonic, given the past statements indicating that it has been romantic historically and the interview (+ supplemental evidence) suggesting that it currently is (I am very aware of the variation in QPRs, though, so I'm sympathetic to that interpretation from folks. However, I also understand that many explicitly romantic partnerships are considered to be QPRs-- in media or with real people-- in a way that contributes to gay erasure. It's nuanced and I am not the person best equipped to eloquently discuss it). Obviously, just to underscore here, we are not owed any information about their personal lives and the vast majority (if not the entirety) of the phandom just riffs off of the information they tell us, all of which happen to point to a romantic relationship. They clearly don't have any discomfort in us assuming this, and I personally don't believe they'll ever give us any more conclusive statement about their relationship any time soon, given that they've told us enough that the implication of a romantic partnership is pretty solidly there.

TLDR: Dan and Phil have "hard launched" (AKA released information that portrays their relationship as irrefutably romantic) 2-3 times. There is also other more indirect information that seems to confirm a romantic relationship, though if one wanted to, it could be read as non-romantic-- however, given those conclusive statements, and the current way they treat phandom commentary about their relationship (AKA not giving a shit), it is the effective conclusion that they are in a romantic relationship. Other conclusions, such as them being queerplatonic or them having broken up, seem to rely on a lot of critical assumptions, while the idea that they are in a romantic relationship is in line with their own statements as well as what we generally see out of them.

Thank you for your patience and your very kind ask! PS calling it "phacts" is funny as fuck, I did not utilize that verbiage here through my reply but you were a visionary for this. have a lovely one :D

PS. If any folks want to add, or if I missed something when glancing back over this and corrections are needed, please please please share! I am so deeply not a phandom history i am simply a little guy! much love

[whatevertheweather]

Thank you all for the tags @run-for-chamo-miles @monbons @forabeatofadrum @rimeswithpurple @ileadacharmedlife @artsyunderstudy @noblecorgi @you-remind-me-of-the-babe! You're all making me very emotional about fandom, and my TBR has gotten out of control.

So. It's 2024 for a little bit more. I'm not sure what's going to happen as I write this post, but I know it's not going to be succinct, so we're just going to start below the cut and see what happens.

I'm waffling over where to start, but I've decided on what we're here for, which is the fic recap. I did actually make fic goals in 2024, and I did actually meet some of them, which I'm trying to focus on instead of the parts I didn't meet. Here's a nice lil screenshot to sum that up.

I did give Bait and Switch a checkmark after some hesitation, because it says ongoing, and I did keep it going. I just didn't finish. (The new goal is before CORB 2025 I guess.)

So I completed 2 fics. Continued 1. Posted 60,917 words, AO3 says, even though that's including the chapters of the WIPs I started last year, and by my clumsy calculations with that in mind, it's actually 32,990. Did not meet my goals, struggled to write most of the time, but when I was looking for these stats, I found AO3 doesn't even give me a 2023 tab (rip first chaps of Bait and Switch and Musical Chairs, I guess), so it's an improvement over last year.

It just doesn't feel like it, because so much of what I did is unposted. So those are the stats I'm gonna give.

Words that didn't get posted: 23.5k

Fics this close to done that I just couldn't get any farther on: 4

Fics started: 3

Fics lovingly revisited after being abandoned for a long while: 2

Number of projects I got really excited about writing: 3

Number of times I wrote AHAHAHA in brainstorming documents because I figured out what I need to do to fix the problems I was having: 5

How long it will take me to turn those ahas into action: I cannot possibly say

Number of times I should have reached out for brainstorming help: 50, probably

Number of times I actually reached out: 3, I think

It's these last two points I actually care about. Well, no, I care about all of it, but it's these last two I've been thinking about. I had writing goals for 2024, I'm going to have writing goals for 2025, but I also had a more nebulous goal to participate in fandom more, and that's the one I'm actually bothered about not meeting.

I have a bad habit of thinking the only way I can participate is by getting fic done. Sharing it. Posting snippets if it's not done. Like I can only rejoice in other people's WIPsday posts if I have my own, instead of just being inspired by other people's writing and art. Or I can only share excitement or progress if I'm sure it's going to go somewhere, instead of just posting what I have and letting the community of it all be its own excitement. Or I can only comment if I have the headspace to put together a stunning review that perfectly encapsulates what I liked about a fic/art/anything, instead of just saying what I can or messaging someone to tell them I loved the thing they made, as if I don't know how wonderful it feels when that happens.

I'm getting sappy and maudlin on main, but I appreciate this fandom so much, even when I revert to lurking, and I want so much to get back to participating and talking to people and sharing in all the amazing wonderful things this fandom does. Y'all are some of the most talented and creative and kind people and I adore you all. So that's my main (fandom-related) goal for 2025, and any fic completed will just be bonus points.

But! Since we're here for fic at the end of the year, I will round out this rambling post by saying there are at least 3 ideas I'm hopeful I'll be able to maintain my current level of enthusiasm for, and beyond that there are about 5 that are a few sentences away from done, so there's hope for seeing at least some fic from me in the new year. Related, here's a peek at the first three documents on my drive.

Two of these fall in the "a few sentences away from done good lord why can't you just finish this" category. The other one falls in the category of things I'm actually very excited about, and hope to at least have a WIPsday post for it before too long. Because I'm thinking keeping things secret for fear of never finishing them is actually kind of silly, and I don't need to keep trying to create things in a vacuum.

Finally, a mess of tags that is me waving hello with both hands: @fatalfangirl @moodandmist @martsonmars @facewithoutheart @whogaveyoupermission

@mostlymaudlin @sillyunicorn @aristocratic-otter @bookish-bogwitch @alexalexinii

@ivelovedhimthroughworse @iamamythologicalcreature @ionlydrinkhotwater @thewholelemon @bluedahlia912

@youarenevertooold @cutestkilla @raenestee @confused-bi-queer @basiltonbutliketheherb

[caterpills]

20 Fanfic Author Questions

Hi!! I was tagged by the lovely @cha-melodius and @anincompletelist for this!

I've only written 2 (!!!) fics, so you're going to have the excuse the repeats in answers!

1. How many works on AO3?

2 🥰

2. Total AO3 Word Count?

99,315

3. Top 5 2 fics by Kudos

This is More of a Comment Than a Question

If You've Got It, Haunt It

4. What fandoms do you write for?

Red, White, and Royal Blue

5. Do you respond to comments?

I do! If you've left me one, I have probably responded to it. I love getting comments, lots of warm little fuzzies. Plus I'm always so excited to see what others liked or noticed about the fic 🥰 (Sometimes commenters picked up on things that I didn't even realize and that is just awesome.)

6. Angstiest Ending?

Uhhh, I don't really write angsty endings? Comment/Question is angsty (but not terribly so) but the ending is still happy, full stop. I'm probably always going to put characters through it, but they'll end up together. I'm a sap, what can I say?

7. Fic with the Happiest Ending?

Happiest? This is More of a Comment Than a Question. While, yes, If You've Got It, Haunt It is pure hilarious chaos aka "a silly goose time", the payoff (I believe!) is more satisfying in Comment/Question, just by the sheer nature of it being a multi-chap versus a short one-shot!

8. Do you get hate?

I don't think I've gotten hate. I've gotten a few comments that have come off really unkind. Those aren't great either, but they aren't outright hate.

9. Do you write smut?

I do not! I read a whole heck ton of it (😏) but it never felt easy for me to write. The closest I'll get is non-explicit sex and other soft intimacy, but you're probably not going to see my writing venturing into E-ratings because it is not a skill I possess!

10. Do you write crossovers?

Nah. I don't think I ever would either. I love AUs, but most of the time, my fandoms and their characters are staying in their own little separate bubbles! (Doesn't mean I won't read them though!!)

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Nope! (Or at least, not that I know of!)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have not, but if someone ever wanted to, that would be cool!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Not... yet. 👀 (iykyk — there's a doc with ideas, and me saying "okay hear me out" every five seconds.)

14. All time favourite ship?

I'm not answering this! You can't make me choose.

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I can't really say. I have docs for all my WIPs (some y'all don't even know!!) with the intention of finishing them. Some have become more work than originally planned and I'm generally a slow writer. So like nothing is abandoned, but it may be in a few weeks or a few months before they are done!

16. Writing strengths?

URGHHH, this question. Narrative voice, I think? I'm confident that the narration, when in a certain POV, is sound and that you can really hear it come across when reading. Also, details. I've gotten complimented a lot on all the research and little narrative bits I throw into fics. (Pulled from the reality of living it, baby *finger guns*)

17. Writing Weaknesses?

Before ANYONE boos at me, I'm going to say setting. You may not think so, but some of the most difficult parts for me to write were/are the descriptions of places. I'm also shit at worldbuilding. Also, I don't really know how to be succinct. And while people may say "it's not a bad thing!" it truly is a detriment because I'll spend three paragraphs describing something that needs three sentences.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

Totally cool with it!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Pretty sure it was me becoming friends with the actress who plays Lex in Jurassic Park, and then us going to Jurassic Park, written on a yellow legal pad when I was eight.

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

It's always going to be my first born, my whole heart: This is More of a Comment Than a Question

I'm going to quickly tag a few others, but zero pressure: @alasse9 @14carrotghoul @onthewaytosomewhere @theprinceandagcd @jafffacakess @porcelainmortal @faketrex @emeryhall @dezinthecloud

[royal-ruin]

f1 fanfic recs charles/carlos (charlos) part 4

other f1 fic rec lists here personal favorites are starred, by the way. everything is complete unless stated otherwise

in honor of carlos' win in the ausgp and his appendix removal (and his last year at ferrari, ignore me sobbing in the background), here are some of my fav fics of them.

if all of them are starred that just means they're all amazing.

i'll make you laugh by venerat (~7k)

[“You are cute,” says Carlos, waving his marker in emphasis. “Obviously. I am always saying this.”

“I am not cute.” Charles blinks at him. “When are you saying I am cute?”]

literally so adorable.

*what we felt by venerat (~14k)

[Imprinted, Charles should say, shocked. I hope he is alright. He should say that.

“My god,” he says instead. “On who?”]

so creative and amazing. def check out this author for more of other pairings, i know they have a bunch of hot smutty one-shots if you're into that.

*sweet tea in the summer by bloodmoonforme (~10k)

[Sometimes, when they first arrive at the circuit for a weekend, Charles will look decidedly paler, a little drawn. Then, he'll show up for FP1 on Friday seemingly much better all of the sudden, eyes unnaturally bright and cheeks red - that's how to tell how long it has been since he last drank.

Not that Carlos notices. Or keeps track of it, for that matter.

Except he does.]

Or the one where Charles is a vampire and Carlos struggles.

i don't remember this unfortunately, but i do remember loving it.

*the actor says he hates himself by bloodmoonforme (~5k)

[“You okay, mate?” Carlos asks, pitching his voice a bit louder in order to be heard over the music.

Charles doesn’t answer. Slowly, Carlos realizes that the way Charles is staring is one that he recognizes. It’s the same way he looks while he’s out racing, the same one he wears in the simulator. It’s a look of total focus. There’s something Charles wants and means to have.]

tags say that there's cheating so if you don't like that, don't read.

*dice che ti ama (ma lo sai che mente) by choripan (~3k)

[But Charles smiled, dimples out and about, back against the wall of Carlos’ driver’s room. Like he knew he wasn’t in danger.

Like he hadn’t entered a lions’ den looking like a three course meal.

(Like he knew Carlos was all bark and no bite, and toying with the metaphorical rubber band —stretch, stretch, stretching—wouldn’t ever make it snap into his straight nose.)]

kinda like a carlos-focused relationship study. it lowkey altered my brain chemistry for some reason

punctuated all wrong by Cloudcollector (~8k)

Prompt: "I don’t know if someone else agrees with me but I’m a sucker for the whole person A falls in love with person B but they think they don’t deserve person B’s love trope and I’d love to see how it would play out with charlos (not saying who’s person A and who person B, even though that should be pretty obvious)"

*the trials of 2022 by chiliconcarlos (~34k)

A partial summary of the 2022 season, as told by Charles or Carlos, following each race.

Friday is Just the Beginning by nottonyharrison (~3k)

On a Thursday in December, Caco had come to him with a proposal. A PDF attached to an email, emblazoned with the garish red Netflix logo, and consisting of a three paragraph, succinct concept that involved winter training, the mountains, and Carlos timing his schedule to overlap with Charles’ for a week.

On a Friday in January, he’s sitting in a private sauna long after the cameras have been packed away for the night, with Charles right next to him.

this is basically plot w porn, with a lot of carlos inner monologue which i love so enjoy!

Don't Do This To Me by pastrnaks_sainz (~2k)

[Carlos hands shake as he stares at his phone screen. The email from Caco is displayed and the brightness is turned all the way up. Like he’s being taunted. The big bold letters in the subject line might as well be saying ‘NOBODY WANTS YOU’ instead of ‘New Opportunities Ahead’.]

fair warning, one of the tags is hurt no comfort.

Loose Lips Sink Ships by kxleida (~2k)

Carlos finds out he's leaving Ferrari. Charles finds him in his hotel room, beer bottles scattered all across. They both know it's not fair.

A bit of hurt/comfort surrounding Charles, Carlos, and the Ferrari announcement for the F1 2024 silly season.

this isn't everything you are by shadil (~2k)

The news hit him again where he least expects it.

a prayer for which no words exist by transbrucewayne (~3k)

Charles has to assume Carlos knows by now; they should’ve told him. He doesn’t know how long they took to tell Sebastian, but it had been almost inevitable for him. He walked into the 2020 season with an air of resignation. With Carlos…everyone thought he was going to get another year, at least. Charles thought he was going to get another year. Then, Carlos would move to Audi, to the surprise of approximately no one, and the two of them would part, and Charles would spend the rest of his career smiling at him across the room, fist bumping him in press conferences, and never touching him more than the others deemed appropriate.

i know better (but you're still around) by shadil (~2k)

Sometimes, Carlos dreams about María.

He was his (but also he was not) by f1amboyant (~2k)

[Charles crossed his arms over his chest. “Why are you leaving?” he asked, no bullshit, staring straight at Carlos, peering into his soul.]

Shadowhunters AU

and the world was gone by Bluejay141519 (~12k)

It’s not entirely unfounded, having something like this happen. Charles knows of various stories of the past, where different drivers’ energies don’t mix well and it causes chaos. He’s even heard of magic being used to sabotage in F1.

Charles always thought these were just stories, until he got his seat.

tbh it's not completely relationship focused, but it's still amazing.

[synnthamonsugar]

as per tags: I'm asking you about toland and you don't have to be normal abt it

[sicko mode] HA HA HA... YES

I have a big, succinct, fully sourced post going over what we know about Toland, which I recommend reading!

The TL;DR is less interesting than the full story, but the quick rundown is: Warlock who claims to have communed with the Darkness gets exiled from the City for knowing too much about the Hive, and is recruited by Eris Morn & Eriana-3 to their doomed fireteam for his knowledge.

Other fun things I left out of the other post:

Voidwalker & Sunsinger.

Partnered to the Ghost Guren, who fully matched his freak.

Involved in thanatonautics, discoursed with Osiris over it.

Has unresolved, mutual disagreement with Osiris.

Respects the Reef Cryptarch Adonna, whose research into the Deathsong he describes as unmatched.

Likes Wei Ning.

Didn't like Eris to start with but came around to her, describes her as the best of their team, and himself as revering her . :)

Has good things to say about Eriana & Sai too. #girlrespecter

Was a "recording sentimental moments" guy.

Between Toland & Guren, we get allusions to Biblical canon, literature (he loves a tortured Dante-Virgil metaphor), Buddhist cosmology, and a direct reference to WarGames (1983).

Knew how to do hive teleportation and taught Eris, too.

Had a great interaction with Mara.

Hanging around Sjur, too?

Probably forgetting some other things, I'll update as I think of them.

[pseudophan]

selfishly incredibly happy that you ended up posting those gifs because you always gif the best moments in such a...succinct way? (i don't even know what that word means really and i can't be bothered to google it right now but it feels fitting)

oh, and also because they always get so many notes for the metrics 😁

so i guess what I'm saying is thanks, i missed you gifing

thank you! let's go with succinct because usually that's basically what i'm going for. i don't like making sets that are like ten gifs long, very rarely is it necessary and it's just a bit confusing. i know some people prefer giffing every frame of a clip and including every single thing they say, and that's great too, i'm glad those gifsets exist out there as well. but for me personally i'm like.. not everything makes sense word-for-word-frame-by-frame as gifs, especially because dnp speak over each other a lot or start saying something but then abandon it halfway through the sentence, or sometimes there will be a bit that's 95% about one thing but then there's something kind of off topic referencing something that happened earlier in the video in there as well and it's like. as a gifset this makes no sense lmao. and for people who've already watched the video that's fine, but my thing is i'm suuuuuper annoying and partly cater a lot of posts to people who don't know dnp because there literally just isn't anything i find funnier than I Don't Go Here But tags. also it just looks neater to me idk, trimming the fat. oh and then what i've said before about how you can caption a whole clip without actually showing them saying All Of It. if something important or just fun happens in the gifs then yeah but if they're just talking and i can cut the set down from 8 gifs to 5 by just combining some of what they say into gifs that don't Show them saying allll of it then i will absolutely do that

my gifsets might be succinct but my ask replies sure aren't lol sorry

[pseudowho]

Agony Aunt Haitch

Okay, so...enough of you send me posts asking for advice now, that I think I'm going to start collating them here. I can't really believe I'm doing this. I did not intend for this. Laughing.

ADVISORY: I am not a limitless advice pot and nor am I counsellor trained-- if I don't think I have a good answer to give you, I will likely not respond.

Someone asked me, what's your work that has people asking you for advice and opinions?

Succinct Inboxes appreciated.

If anyone would like to weigh in on the advice given, please do so via comments, not further Inboxes.

If you'd like to block these posts, these will be tagged as #Agony Aunt Haitch and my usual Asks will be #Pseudowho Answers You.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Teacher took my conduct award away-- do I still attend Graduation?

Boyfriend won't let me wear his clothes...but he lets his female BFF wear them: Part One, Part One and a bit, Part Two, Part Three

Is it bad that I may never want to have sex? Is porn different from real-life intimacy?

Tell me stuff that's different in smut, compared to real-life intimacy? and a follow-on response, I've felt dicks twitch inside me! and another one, Yeah, me too!

I'm afraid I won't enjoy intimacy irl, and I sometimes feel overwhelmed during self-pleasuring

Best vaginal hygiene tips?

My baby sister is so much younger than me...should I try to build a relationship with her when I'll leaving home?

My lab partner is sexually harassing me-- help! and its follow on, Thanks Haitch-- I broke his nose

I can't let the guy I'm crushing on go...I think he's just shy!

I feel like I'm stagnating in my early twenties, despite achieving my goals-- help!

"You're such a b**ch!"-- Should I stop calling people out on their bullshit, to save their feelings?

My friend started stalking her Crush, and I called her out on it-- AITA?

My Crush got together with my shitty rich friend, ugh! Part One, Part Two and Part Three

In a room full of people, I'm still lonely-- but I hide it so well. What's wrong with me?

Should I approach my Ex for a second chance? Am I just desperate?

How do you and your husband manage conflict?

"it almost makes me feel like I'm loveable" bomb drop

How do you deal with anxiety?

How would you respond to coworkers/strangers who feel entitled to comment on your appearance?

Help! My clingy 'friendzoned' friend keeps touching me, and I don't know how to stop him.

My friend and I are crushing on the same guy...but I lied to preserve the peace. I still like him. What should I do?

[blutopaz15]

Get to Know Fanfic Authors

saw this on my dash, bringing it to the TDP corner of the world!

1. How many works on AO3? 74

2. Total AO3 word count? 479,641...approaching half a million!!!

3. Top 5 fics by kudos:

call it what you want

drawn to you

the very first night

next time

absolutely smitten (wild to me that this long abandoned modern au is on this list!)

4. What fandoms do you write for? Literally JUST The Dragon Prince :) (I tried my hand at some long-ago-deleted ATLA fic way back in the day.)

5. Do you respond to comments? I try, I swear, but...sometimes life is just. A lot.

6. Fic with the angsty ending? Uh...well...I left cursed unfinished and that's quite angsty. drawn to you is also quite angst but I don't think it really count as an angsty ending because obvs we know Rayla comes back <3 I guess love like you could be a contender since it ends right before the end of TTM...

7. Fic with the happiest ending? Most of them!!! I'm gonna go with like we're made of starlight because it's canonverse starscraper sandwiches and it doesn't get much happier than that!

8. Do you get hate? Not directly to me, but you know how Twitter can be...

9. Do you write smut? So very much.

10. Do you write crossovers? I haven't, no. I can't think of anything I'd be compelled to WRITE a crossover for. I could certainly be convinced to READ a crossover. (Am currently reading Sunrise on the Reaping and I would EAT UP a well-written rayllumy Hunger Games fic.)

11. Ever had a fic stolen? No, omg 😭

12. Ever had a fic translated? Also no.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic? Yesss!! @mistenflute and I have our ttm baby au!

14. All time favorite ship? It's rayllum, bby <3 kataang and robstar are some others I've gone through obsessions with!

15. WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? God, all of them? Just kidding. Maybe craft store au? I really doubt I'm going to finish it. It got too big for it's britches.

16. Writing strengths? sentence-to-sentence flow! I think I do a good job of making sure pretty much everything links together.

17. Writing weaknesses? uh. exploding word count? not very succinct? extremely verbose? Also...I literally don't write things with actual plot because I don't trust my creativity to not be stupid, lol. Character work, one-shots, and internal conflict, my beloveds!!!

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue? I don't think I have an opinion?

19. First fandom you wrote for? I wrote like two ATLA oneshots back in the day...

20. Favorite Fic you’ve ever written? I'm going to go for one not mentioned yet here, which is clean slate (post s3, pre ttm, rayllum in katolis). I really love call it what you want, as well, but clean slate is like...ALWAYS in the back of my mind. Sweet sweet katolis rayllum.....<3

Tagging 5 folks! @zuppizup @a-very-sparkly-nerd @jedidragonwarriorqueen @numptypylon @konmaao3

[felagund-fiollaigean]

some general fic writing tips from someone who writes fic. (mostly for my good buddy @pizza-hats-of-the-world-1882 but also for anyone who wants some)

- just because you feel bad about something you've written doesn't mean it's bad.

- on the other hand, if you find yourself rereading fic you wrote for pleasure, that's a certain indicator that what you wrote is going to be good.

- & is for platonic and familial relationships. / is for romantic and sexual relationships. pick one.

- speaking of pick one, make sure you're using the same verb tense through the entire fic. i make this mistake all the time.

- the source material may be ignored for the purpose of contriving a plot for your fic, as is your prerogative. But Watch Out. "He would not fucking say that" looms ever closer. engage with the source material regularly. know the rules before you break them.

- if you don't put spaces between your paragraphs, or your fic summary is something like "sorry i suck at summaries," i will straight up not read it. sorry. do better 👍🏼.

- start in media res if that's what you want to do. many people write fic because there's a specific moment or scene they have in mind. if writing the lead up/conclusion to that doesn't spark joy, then don't bother. post it as is and throw an explanation into the author's notes. you don't owe anybody anything.

- talking to people who also write fic is good and cool for your friends and community but is also a good way to build a captive audience. just saying.

- this is just general writing advice but if you're stuck on a certain sentence or scene, back up a few beats and rewrite that bit from the start. also, anthropomorphizing inanimate objects or landscape is always evocative and kickass. try doing that for funsies. see how it goes.

- long fic is cool and all but if all you want to make is a drabble or short one shot, that is good and excellent and don't let anyone tell you different. there is virtue in being succinct.

- these are all my subjective experiences, so use them if you like, but really you can do whatever you want forever. that's the beauty of fanfic.

- (except for the relationship tagging thing. that's real. i'm not kidding).

[cringefaecompilation]

not necessairly a reply to your tags as much as a general thought but i do have to hope that the hells would've eventually learned that sacrifice isn't always the way, had the story not needed them to rush almost every single time lol like, the one thing they've been sure of is that a big confrontation was eventually gonna happen, be it with ludinus or predathos, so we all know how the group response ended up being 'no time to solve our shit without inconveniencing others/the mission' + 'incredibly low sense of self worth' + 'lots of ways to blow ourselves up' = blow ourselves up in service to the mission B)

i have indeed only watched c3 so i don't have terms of comparisons (well. not by choice) but i don't feel like the constant sacrifice was framed as a good thing?? though i understand what you meant and it's obviously become one of bells hells' defining traits for better and for worse

in this context, they were basically realizing that ludinus had loaded a gun at all their heads: you have to what i want or the gods fucking kill all of us, and in the 5% chance they don't i will come back and kill you to do it. in that case, sure. two shitty options with equally shitty outcomes that maybe you can try to redirect into something positive, i get it.

i guess it's more how it's presented. laudna needs to embrace delilah's power... oops, wait, delilah almost killed her for it. ashton needs to awaken his titan side... oh wait, he accidentally fucking committed suicide. fearne needs to get over herself and embrace the shard's power... but oh wait, her dad almost permakilled her even with it. orym sold himself into slavery or sentenced himself to death... don't worry about it, dude! imogen spends the entire campaign saying she won't be a puppet and then basically gets forced to do it For The Greater Good

that's what bugs me. you can't have your players say they're breaking the cycle and fate and then make them everything that fate tells them that they must become, even if it's "for the greater good" or they can redirect it in the end. it's not that they haven't learned a lesson, it's more like they learn a lesson that doing something is dangerous or will harm them but then get told to suck it up and have to do it anyways. they're getting PUNISHED for trying to go outside the lines. i want them to stop getting shoved into boxes by everyone.

edit: wait hold on i already complained about this in a more succinct way

[brodingles]

@tempreblog

When I told people I was gonna respond to these tags, the phrase "UNSKIPPABLE CUTSCENE" came up. I'll try to be succinct. I have to, because the original draft of this response got eaten and if I have to try and re-do all that by memory I’ll die. (I’m [not] fine)

The inciting incident for the Tiny Gents Cartoon (which is what I've been calling it to distinguish it from the TTRPG) is Kristoff being found on Fairfolk Academy school grounds by the RA's (They studied under the OG3 Princes, who are higher in administration). This is notable to the original topic because Kristoff is an anomaly. Anyone who can enter school grounds usually has to be invited, it's magically hidden and has a barrier over it. By all rights and accounts he shouldn't be able to be here.

The Fairfolk student body is made up of royalty of every shape and size. The requirements for being royalty are pretty lax-- in the TTRPG one player character was Prince of the Pirates, one of the main antagonists of the first campaign got into the school by being the local 'Prince of the Playground' by just having stupid good charisma that made him neighbourhood royalty, the second campaign included Will Smith from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air etc etc-- but that is a requirement. You have to be able to be considered royalty in SOME capacity, most likely by gaining a level of authority. Kristoff does not fit this requirement. So the first big mystery of TG is why and how he is here. Eugene is the other anomaly in the main four, but Eugene is aware of that and Kristoff's appearance is why he comes out of the hiding he's been in for a while. Kristoff was found and became a student. Eugene has been here a little longer and has been observing the school's going's ons. He is not officially enrolled and would like to keep it that way. He does NOT want his cover blown. He's willing to reveal this about himself once he confirms Kris is cool. Something Something Eleanor and Jason from The Good Place.

Neither one of them can get out of the barrier to go home, so they're stuck on campus. This has gotten longer than I'm comfortable not putting a read-more on, so continued under the cut an a lil more general school talk;

"But what about Princes like Aladdin?" Aladdin actually already graduated, and eventually is intended to be brought up as a potential solution to the "how did they get here" problem-- Aladdin was confirmed a "legal" Prince in the King of Thieves film, so the RA's are looking into whether or not Kristoff (they don't know about Eugene) is somehow secretly royalty. It would be the easiest, most simple solution. "I didn't know I was royalty" isn't exactly an unheard of occurrence, but it's very uncommon. I've populated Fairfolk with mainly Royals not owned by Disney (simply put there just aren't enough for a whole school, and I just think adding new characters is fun!), so there's a lot of diversity in the pool on what counts as royalty (As you can see from previous examples it is intended to be stretched and very silly.). The student body is overall cool with Kristoff (some of them are a lil confused but got the spirit.), in fact at some point there's a lot of buzz about the weird new kid who shouldn't be here and does cool things occasionally, but you always have your jerks, so there's that.

I couldn’t find a place to put this organically, but when you’re enrolled into Fairfolk you are given an “ID”-- it’s an object that belongs to the student that either is or represents something that is very important to them. It’s impressed with their magical footprint, and essentially works as a key. This is how they get in and out of buildings, reserve rooms, and how they get into their dorm room (they have roommates). Kristoff is given one upon his unorthodox enrollment. Eugene does not have one, which has totally never inconvenienced him ever. The school sends letters out to prospects, and there's an option whether or not the child is to attend. The school itself exists in between various worlds (it is not a physical place someone can just enter, bringing home the whole "you have to be invited" thing), and is considered politically neutral ground. There's a holiday that celebrates the school's founding, with emphasis on it being a peaceful place to do that kind of mingling.

The reason they pull from various worlds/dimensions/planes/whatever you wanna call it is to avoid historical and worldbuilding discrepancies, as well as justify multiple time periods. (Enhanced int he TTRPG because it lends to the system to go crazy with character creation!). The reason Kristoff is paired with Hans as roommates is not onl;y because Hans recently lost his, but because they’re from the same world and time period!

The general age range for students is between “13” yo and “17” yo, or the equivalent of whatever place the Prince is from, with some wiggle room for birthdates. The school is split up into 5 years of classes, with 3 RAs split up amongst them.

The 1-2 years are looked over by RA Prince Theo (studied under Prince Philip from Sleeping Beauty)

Years 3-4 are looked over by RA Prince Charming (studied under Prince “Charming” from Cinderella)

Year 5 is looked over by RA Prince Francis (studied under The Prince from Snow White) Originally I used the actual OG3 as the RAs, but I ended up changing that recently for logistical (and some nonlogistical) reasons;

The idea of the OG3 as these (seemingly) untouchable beacons to aspire to really feels like it fits thematically in the current iteration. Having them represent a standard is important to some of the implications I want.

Them being some kind of Mysterious lends well to the fact that we don’t actually know that much about them! We get some glimpses into them in their films (primarily Philip, and this is reflected in how he acts when we do see him and how he's taught Theo), but ultimately they really are some level of enigma. And I think that’s neat!

The RAs are de-oncelerized versions of the OG3 I made for the TTRPG and I got super attached to them and would’ve felt awful not being able to include them, so Life Found A Way (I am Life in this scenario)

The RAs are meant to reflect (or be attempting to reflect) their Head’s ideals, so that's what leads them. I can get into the RAs in another post, I am feral about them.

When it comes to other staff they’re in a boat that also involves a mixture of canon characters and expys. When the concept was originally being thought of, I had some more minor Disney characters cast as staff (ie I had a pre-story Hook be the fencing teacher, which is the actual context from the first official TG post, and Mrs. Potts being a head of etiquette, though due to Plot I couldn’t keep Mrs. Potts even if I wanted to. Adam’s whole deal and all). Because I did a lot of having to make characters based off other characters or their tropes for the game, a lot of the current professors are heavily based on more minor Disney characters, but are not those characters themselves. Honestly, with the current lore of everything, it actually doesn’t make sense to have the staff be too many official IP characters. Very Twisted Wonderland of me.

The replacement staff is very fun to work with either way! I care about them, they have their own charm (again, different post worthy).

A lot of this is home-made, partially due to lack of content to go off of. I double checked this, but there weren't really any Princess movies in the 2000s, and even then every official Princess movie doesn’t have a corresponding Prince, which means that there’s almost 20 years before the era of princes I’ve grabbed and the last prince.

I have recently been playing with this concept in the worldbuilding and plot, maybe something to do with taking a higher step after graduating. I have to cook on that a little bit more, but I have an idea swimming that I think would be really cool and lead to some heavy character development (both positive and negative!).

The throughline question for TG is “what does it mean to be ‘good’ “, so I tried to make a world that would explore that question and what the answer could be.

I am very passionate about this, this is very long, this will not be my only post. If I forgot anything I can do it in another post.

Thank you for your tags, I like talking about Tiny Gents!

[themoonweaversden]

Messeges that were found so far: SOOS (spoilers)

This is just to collect all the codes that you can type in in thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com and their effects only (please click images for better quality)

Masterpost with all messeges / codes

Transcript:

"Sup Dude! Soos here, or as I call myself now "Mr Mystery," but I also call myself Soos too because that's still my name dude! Okay, so first, the GOSS, Tad Strange. Is Totally. Crushing on Woodpecker Guy. I ship it dude. I ship it HARD.

Anyway Mabel wanted me to write about the triangle guy? Dawg, homie is BAD. NEWS. Never trust a bro who can climb inside of your brain. And his book is sus and, to be quite frank, mid. I looked inside and just saw glitches and the words "HE'S UNCORRUPTABLE." What's that supposed to mean? At least holding the book made me look kinda smart, so 1/5 stars I guess.

Anyway Mabel told me to keep it brief, which is no problem for me, I love brievity! I can't get enough of it! Being succinct is like, super easy for me for some reason, I guess it's like a gift? Don't get me started on pithiness, let alone- oh dang I'm like, running out of paper?! LOL! That's what tape is for bro!

SOLVED!

What were we talking about? Oh yeah, my life as chief proprietor/tour guide/scam-magineer (Mr Pine's phrase) of the Mystery Shack! Running this place is an actual dream come true. To stop from pinching myself I asked Old Man McGucket to invent a Pinch-Bot but then it got loose and went on a pinching spree and had to be put down, heh heh. Wild times!

What's the shack like without the Pines? Well, it's got a lot more laser tag. And Questiony is back and MORE QUESTIONABLE THAN EVER! (Turns out all he needed was PANTS!) Every day I get to regale the children with yarns of enchantment and lore, and Melody set up this dope train that goes through the redwoods carrying baby goats. We're doing like... so good. Knock on on wood, but we're always saying "jinx" after talking and like, "anticipating each others emotional needs." Might be some little Sooslets on the way! WINK!

Mr Pines is gonna be away at sea for a while but he promised to not send me any postcards, which meant a lot to me. Dude is a real one! Anyway, I gotta go get some lotion for my cheeks. Abuelita and Melody have been pinching me at the same time a lot and it's starting to become a problem.

Look what I gotta deal with over here! Seesh! Stay cool, and if you're ever in Oregon stop by the Mystery Shack to see the local world record holder for the world's happiest dude. ME! Ha-ha!

-Soos "Mr Mystery" Ramirez

PS: Don't tell Ford that I got pudding on his cursed book!! Unless he likes pussing, then tell him to lick here ⟶

PPS: Did you know that you can turn any spoon into a spork with a few simple adjustments? I'll show you how any time dude!

PPS: If you see Bill, cover your head in tin foil and bring some ninja stars. And a bat, in case he ever accquires human flesh. Or in case you see a PINATA"

[best--dress]

Ten Questions for Writers

Thank you for tagging me @aristocratic-otter! 🥰

How many works do you have on AO3? As of this week - three!

What’s your total AO3 word count? 26,297, which seems low for a year's worth of writing, but I have a lot written for Who Are You In The Dark that isn't ready to publish yet

What fandoms do you write for? Just Carry On

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I am admittedly not the best at responding to comments. I get sort of overwhelmed by people saying nice things about my work and every response I draft in my head feels completely insubstantial to express how precious their comment is to me. I am making an active effort to be better at replying though 🥺

Have you ever had a fic stolen? No

Have you ever co-written a fic before? No, but I'd love to! @iamamythologicalcreature and I have kicked around some really fun ideas

What’s your all-time favourite ship? It's gotta be snowbaz. I think about them all the time

What are your writing strengths? Banter, flirting, and conversation generally come pretty easily to me. I often laugh at my jokes while I'm writing; I don't know who else is laughing, but if I think it's funny, I'm pretty happy. At this point in life, I also think I'm pretty good at just getting started, writing on a blank page, trusting that it will go somewhere and it doesn't matter if it's shit at first.

What are your writing weaknesses? Everything I write is short as hell - I've always been a really succinct writer. I feel like all of my stories would be much longer and more fully fleshed out in another writer's hands. I'm also always working on "show, don't tell"...the eternal struggle

First fandom you wrote for? Carry On is the first I've ever published anything for. But I was definitely writing some kind of self-insert Baby-Sitters Club fic when I was 9 years old. Too bad I didn't have the Internet back then??

Tagging @iamamythologicalcreature @thewholelemon @mooncello @louisandtheaquarian