#Non Repeated Patterns

[scourge-sympathiser]

SCOURGE SUNDAY 025/???

BLESSING leader of WATERCLAN

[deservedgrace]

I don't know if I can say this in a way that doesn't come across as shaming (because that's really not my intent), but there's such a complicated feeling that comes from... intellectually knowing that no one comes out of the womb socially conscious, and because of the society we live in we all have to unlearn and deconstruct harmful explicit and implicit beliefs, and that everyone is in a different place in that journey and demanding perfection and shaming people for not being where they """should""" be is counterproductive at best and discourages people from continuing the work at worst

And also having the visceral disappointment of..... the only reason this statement or idea seems groundbreaking to people is because they don't choose to operate under a framework of intersectionality and choose to only listen to people who look like them

[navramanan]

still heartbroken but cannot move

[your--isgayrights]

The problem with dissection/the process of "understanding" in general is that going too far in abstracting something defeats the initial purpose of abstracting it and brings you back to the beginning which is the reality you were abstracting from and the thing is that the ☯️ is a visual translation of the fact that the furthest human thought can go without losing meaning in the process of "meaning making" is to draw dichotomy which is very similar to the fact of all or nothing data bridges that numerous sensory inputs have to trigger in a certain threshold of "difference" in order to trigger an action potential that conducts one sensation to another to create the physical pattern of a person making a "meaning" of something and while a computer trying to replicate that process would use 1s and zeroes because that was the most simplified/abstracted visual symbol of difference a person closer to our point in time could come up with, someone millenia ago observing the same process of the mind and meaning making abstracted it to the point of the dark 陰 and the light 陽 when the sun rises over the hill. Imagination is a physical process where patterns initially generated by simple chain reactions between sensory stimuli and behavioral responses that alter future sensory stimuli being reconnected and combined to create distinct, new patterns that then become a part of that concrete sensory data and perpetuate variation to a point where initial stimulus loses relevance. Everything created by humans can be understood by other humans because the functionality of our understanding has largely remained consistent over a long period of time, the variations in our attachments between symbols and internal stimuli occur at a much faster rate than variations in the physical makeup of our understanding process. The probability of that understanding, however, will be affected by variations at different levels of the process. Variety in stimulus/lived experiences/input data can cause difference in understanding, attachment of different external behavioral responses to distinct internal processes can cause difference in understanding and the pathway of understanding connecting similar input data of the senses to similar output data of actions can be variable while producing the same outwardly visible results. Given such disparate probabilities, isn't it really a miracle then when two human beings are able to understand one another?

[hellohomura]

25.02.2011 ⏳ today's timeline

idk if theres like canon pmmm lore abt it somewhere in an interview madokaheads lmk but i like to think their magical girl forms as being manifestions of their idealised selves while also reflecting certain facets of their psych. which could explain impracticality in battle attire like idk. homuras stiletto heels. sorry i know i knoww its magic its the genre shes a support not dps char their bodies feel less pain re their soul gems etc etc but whenever i watched homuras magical girl training montage i just thought abt how much it must hurt running on those lmao that being said id like to think their magical girl forms Can change like with shifting values or convictions but usually not very noticeably and only with small differences when they do due to their short lifespans. id imagine their forms just becoming dimmer/desaturated maybe with minisculely corrupted design elements like slightly warped motifs/off pattern details before they fall into despair to reflect disillusionment in the ideals and beliefs that manifested them originally. or maybe missing details to show how they dont remember what theyr fighting for. but id imagine them to look just slightly off like theyr barely holding it together before they burst and hatch into witches (itd be very cool to think of rare instances where magical girls hav complete upheavals in their belief systems and narrowly avoid becoming witches to manifest completely different forms instead. still itd just an intermittent form before the inevitable) but in homuras case since shes been a magical girl for around 100 loops i wanted to design a form that could reflect her psych after repeating a decade of adolescent trauma taking aspects of her original manifestation and fracturing, repeating, layering them to the point where it looks like its about to collapse in on itself before crystalising. she has much longer hair to convey how subconsciously she feels like she should be aging. longer sleeves that swallow her hands like clothes she shouldv grown into by now. two bows, the black one of her original length to represent the withered innocence of her wish and the shadow of her despair while its strangled by the bow of her original purple that stubbornly sits on top and stretches past it. added fingerless tactical gloves for her significantly accumulated knowledge in mechanical and explosive weaponry. i wanted to make her outfit giv off more of a witchy vibe too. shrug initially i drew her 1st version with nothing changed from her canon design besides braiding her 2 side bangs and i drew the wider heel on her 10th loop version but i rly wanted to do the diamond heel for her final one and the progression of her heel becoming sharper just made more visual sense if i switched it lol oh also i liked drawing her bangs shadowing so much of her eyes but i thought itd b fun to draw more of her eyes showing to symbolise how she metaphorically can see more clearly now. nothing about her physical non magical girl form changed but i think if homura can use her time magic to heal her eyes she can also use it to idk freeze her hair in a certain position so it doesnt get in the way instead of a haircut ghjfgdfgd anyway its fun for me to imagine her not noticing with how focused she is on saving madoka until one day she sees her reflection and is taken aback at how unrecognisable shes become to herself even while her actual body remains unchanged

[yuzujjn]

APPLE CIDER ◟ LOSER HEESEUNG

𝗔𝗠𝗢𝗨𝗥或 ᪲ 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝗂 𝖽𝗈, 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄

【 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 】 𝑙’ loser tutor!heeseung & fem!rea 8OO non idol au fluff oneshot incl. skinship slight jealousy ˊᯅˋ click

다니 ⦂ happy birthday @yeokii ! you are senior citizen now, hope u enjoy this

YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU'RE DOING.

“…so you’ll use this formula for these types of derivations,” he mumbles. “it’s not hard if you follow the pattern. the numerator should always,"

his glasses are slightly askew today, like he put them on too fast, and there's a slight smudge on the right lens. he hasn't noticed, of course. heeseung's too busy explaining derivatives like it's some love language, all soft pencil circles and furrowed brows. his voice is calm, patient, low. it's not fair how attractive he looks in this light—messy hair, rolled-up sleeves, shy eyes that barely meet yours unless you’re not looking.

and that's why you say it.

"you know, i think that one TA from econ is kind of cute."

you drop it casually, like you're not watching him from the corner of your eye, like you're not anticipating the pause he makes—just long enough to give him away.

heeseung doesn’t say anything, not for a second. he just… pauses. his pen halts mid-scratch, and when he lifts his eyes, they flick to yours fast, before quickly darting back down to the notebook like it offended him.

“cute,” he repeats, low and neutral. "hm."

you smile to yourself.

"yeah. he's smart too," you say, tone all sugary as you doodle little stars in the marigns of your worksheet. "you know the guy, right? marcus, i think?"

“i know him,” he says, flat. you’re dying. he’s so obviously pissed off it’s adorable.

and now he’s leaning back a little in his chair, arms crossed like he’s casual, like he doesn’t care at all—except you can tell by the slight clench in his jaw and the sharp little exhale he gives every time you say cute that he’s not casual at all.

you lean forward over the table, chin in hand. “honestly i feel like i learn better from him than anyone else.”

his pencil freezes on the paper. just for a second. and then he looks at you.

that gaze you know way too well, like he’s reading your entire thought process and rewriting it in his brain. “you come to me every tuesday and thursday.”

you smile sweetly. “yeah, but that’s just because your notes are color-coded.”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. “you got a 96 on your last exam.”

“maybe i just got lucky or i'm smart,”

heeseung leans forward slightly, arms crossed on the table. his expression is unreadable, but his eyes aren’t leaving yours now. “you think that was luck?”

you’re biting back a grin, twirling your pen. “i don’t know. maybe marcus's method just works better for me.” there’s a pause. like he’s calculating what to say next. like he’s choosing violence.

“you wanna switch tutors?”

“mm, i didn’t say that,” you hum. “just saying, he explains things really clearly. i like how direct he is.”

his jaw clenches. not hard. just enough for you to notice. “i can be direct.”

you raise an eyebrow. “really? because last week you took fifteen minutes to explain conditional probability with a metaphor about dice and divorce.”

his cheeks slightly flush. bingo.

he leans back a little, stretching one arm over the back of his chair, tapping his pencil against the table like he’s thinking hard. but his voice is sharp. “if you wanna test how good i am at explaining, i can throw out the worksheet and do this entire lesson from memory.”

you blink. “oh?”

“right now,” he says. calm. cocky. eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he knows he’s challenging you. “you can quiz me. pick any topic. i’ll explain it better than him. because i’m smarter than him.”

you laugh, bright and surprised. “heeseung—”

“i’m not kidding.” his voice drops an octave. “you think he’s impressive? cool. but i promise you—he doesn’t know you like i do. he doesn’t know what parts you get stuck on. how you read questions out loud when you’re unsure. how you underline things twice when you’re confident. how you always forget to label your axes.” he leans in closer, just a little, eyes flicking down to your lips for a split second before meeting your gaze again. “marcus doesn’t sit here twice a week and rewrite notes based on your learning style. i do.”

and you’re quiet for a second. your face feels hot. your stomach’s fluttering. god fuck.

heeseung shifts back, not smug—just sure. “you’re not switching tutors.”

you narrow your eyes at him, but you’re grinning now. “wow. territorial much?”

he shrugs. “not territorial. just confident.”

“mm. so you’re not jealous?”

he snorts softly, finally looking away, and you catch the hint of a smile. “he’s not even that tall.”

“oh my god,” you burst out laughing. “you are jealous!”

he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and mutters, “i could explain hypothesis testing better than that guy in my sleep.”

you smile, watching him as he goes back to your worksheet like he didn't just get jealous. your heart’s beating too fast. he’s so serious, so smart, so him.

you lean in again, voice low, teasing. “well, heeseung, if you wanna prove it... i’m free thursday night.”

heeseung finally meets your eyes again.

and smirks. “then thursday night, you’re mine.”

[opencommunion]

"The story of  'John Doe 1' of the Democratic Republic of the Congo is tucked in a lawsuit filed five years ago against several U.S. tech companies, including Tesla, the world’s largest electric vehicle producer. In a country where the earth hides its treasures beneath its surface, those who chip away at its bounty pay an unfair price. As a pre-teen, his family could no longer afford to pay his $6 monthly school fee, leaving him with one option: a life working underground in a tunnel, digging for cobalt rocks.  But soon after he began working for roughly two U.S. dollars per day, the child was buried alive under the rubble of a collapsed mine tunnel. His body was never recovered. 

The nation, fractured by war, disease, and famine, has seen more than 6 million people die since the mid-1990s, making the conflict the deadliest since World War II. But, in recent years, the death and destruction have been aided by the growing number of electric vehicles humming down American streets. In 2022, the U.S., the world’s third-largest importer of cobalt, spent nearly $525 million on the mineral, much of which came from the Congo.

As America’s dependence on the Congo has grown, Black-led labor and environmental organizers here in the U.S. have worked to build a transnational solidarity movement. Activists also say that the inequities faced in the Congo relate to those that Black Americans experience. And thanks in part to social media, the desire to better understand what’s happening in the Congo has grown in the past 10 years. In some ways, the Black Lives Matter movement first took root in the Congo after the uprising in Ferguson in 2014, advocates say. And since the murder of George Floyd and the outrage over the Gaza war, there has been an uptick in Congolese and Black American groups working on solidarity campaigns.

Throughout it all, the inequities faced by Congolese people and Black Americans show how the supply chain highlights similar patterns of exploitation and disenfranchisement. ... While the American South has picked up about two-thirds of the electric vehicle production jobs, Black workers there are more likely to work in non-unionized warehouses, receiving less pay and protections. The White House has also failed to share data that definitively proves whether Black workers are receiving these jobs, rather than them just being placed near Black communities. 'Automakers are moving their EV manufacturing and operations to the South in hopes of exploiting low labor costs and making higher profits,' explained Yterenickia Bell, an at-large council member in Clarkston, Georgia, last year. While Georgia has been targeted for investment by the Biden administration, workers are 'refusing to stand idly by and let them repeat a cycle that harms Black communities and working families.'

... Of the 255,000 Congolese mining for cobalt, 40,000 are children. They are not only exposed to physical threats but environmental ones. Cobalt mining pollutes critical water sources, plus the air and land. It is linked to respiratory illnesses, food insecurity, and violence. Still, in March, a U.S. court ruled on the case, finding that American companies could not be held liable for child labor in the Congo, even as they helped intensify the prevalence. ... Recently, the push for mining in the Congo has reached new heights because of a rift in China-U.S. relations regarding EV production. Earlier this month, the Biden administration issued a 100% tariff on Chinese-produced EVs to deter their purchase in the U.S. Currently, China owns about 80% of the legal mines in the Congo, but tens of thousands of Congolese work in 'artisanal' mines outside these facilities, where there are no rules or regulations, and where the U.S. gets much of its cobalt imports.  'Cobalt mining is the slave farm perfected,' wrote Siddharth Kara last year in the award-winning investigative book Cobalt Red: How The Blood of the Congo Powers Our Lives. 'It is a system of absolute exploitation for absolute profit.' While it is the world’s richest country in terms of wealth from natural resources, Congo is among the poorest in terms of life outcomes. Of the 201 countries recognized by the World Bank Group, it has the 191st lowest life expectancy."

[ditzybeee]

❥・Jason Todd — high school bf

❥・tags: jason todd blurb, jason todd is a loverboy, jason todd is a loser, high school sweethearts, gn!reader, no use of y/n, implied dialogue, loosely based on me and my bf :3

❥・word count: 636

❥・─────────────────────

Jason Todd is crushing hard.

The two of you met freshman year and he couldn't get you out of his head since.

He, of course, went through the painful process of friends-to-lovers. Because he'd rather make sure you liked him—a lot—before considering flirting.

Not that you'd know it.

He was bad at it. He was so, so bad at it.

Stupid lines from his stupid novels. Did you even read Jane Austen?

Never mind that you thought it was cute—you thought he was cute—lucky him.

When Jason asked you out, it couldn't be less cheesy. Full bouquet of flowers—which he didn't burden you with holding for the school day—and a bunch of your favorite snacks, which you promptly shoved into your bag before your teachers questioned them.

Newly dating and he was so excited. Nervous and sweaty palmed holding your hand in his, smiling ear to ear.

He'd walk you to class, even if it's across campus.

Sure, a few tardies would damage his perfect record, but he can't afford you missing your classes.

Dates with Jason were something else. Bruce had Dick chaperone the first few—either that or the dates were at the manor. Not that he didn't trust you, but he didn't trust Jason.

And he wanted to see his second son awkwardly maneuver speaking to his own partner.

Jason shared his first kiss with you on his first non-chaperoned date. A picnic some spring day in which he kept sneezing because of the pollen, mumbling about how badly he looked.

You stared at him in awe, giggling, and helping him wipe his face.

He was so, so in love with you that he whispered if he could kiss you, and quickly did when you accepted.

As high school continued, your relationship blossomed.

Both families trusted the other to keep their child safe when they slept over, to send the two of you to different cities and states for events, and to allow trips.

Jason first said "I love you" when he saw you in your dance attire. Sure, he's seen you in formal wear before. But this? This takes the cake.

He kissed you quickly, whispering the three words into your ear before Alfred made you two pose for pictures.

This same scenario repeated every time the two of you had a dance.

Every dance, every school event, every club meeting, you and Jason were there together.

It was about junior year when he told you about Robin and how he was thinking of changing it to Red Hood once you two graduated. He took your pointers for his new costume design—after a week-long argument about him being a vigilante and how dangerous it was.

He asked you to prom in a long-winded text message—multiple questions of whether you wanted a public promposal—it was obvious he used speech-to-text, and the message mirrored his speech patterns.

The dance was great. Dinner was delicious and the night was equal parts your boyfriend and equal parts your friends.

The days leading up to graduation were full of anxiety and joy.

You and Jason would stay out well past your curfews—which were basically obsolete, as both families didn't enforce it, as long as you were with each other—and just hang out.

You'd talk about your plans after high school—college, trade school, straight to work?

He'd mumble soft praises against your skin as you ramble about your ambitions, mirroring your energy when you asked about his vigilante plans.

Graduation—Jason's eyes hadn't been dry for a single second that day. He sobbed when you walked across the stage, when you cheered just as loudly for him, and when he saw you in your graduation gown all dressed up.

Jason loves the title "high school sweethearts".

❥・─────────────────────

❥・a/n: im feelin soft for my boy rn :( obvi no trauma au if he never DIED <3 more smut soon tho! i wont have internet the week after this coming week so ill try and get as much stuff out as possible!

❥・masterlist

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Honeysuckle.

Pairing: Butterfly!Fae!OC x Reader.

Word Count: 4.2k.

Written For A Very Lovely Anonymous Commissioner.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Aphrodisiacs, Dehumanization, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Borderline Monster-Fucking.

The moment you saw her, you knew that she had to be the most beautiful creature that you would ever see.

Her wings were what struck you first – about ten feet tall and five across, the upper arch curved downward to better complement the large, black splotches currently prying into you through the shadows of the unlit garden. Swirling patterns of orange and red danced across a rich, dusty sort of brown, while white framed the outer perimeter, standing out sharply against the dull foliage. Although you’d initially mistaken her for one of the large, nocturnal birds that’d taken to crashing into your sugar water dispensers in the early hours of the morning, it was clear that she was more or less a woman – her long, sculpted legs bent and tucked against her chest, the arch of her back clear even in the dim light of your lantern. What seemed like hundreds of thousands of braids cast in the same shades as her wings hung to her waist, a pair of furred antennae tangled among them, and domed eyes larger than your fist and blacker than the night sky stared you down, unblinking. It was only when your eyes met hers that you realized your own gaze must’ve been just as invasive, and found the will to turn your attention to more important things than her (admittedly, extremely strange) appearance.

Instead, you poured your energy into the only other thing you could think to do: speaking. Or, attempting to, at least. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” And then, after a sharp inhale, a steadying breath, “I—I’m staying in the cottage this garden belongs to. Are you hurt, or injured, or—god, do you even speak English?”

If she had any intention of responding, she didn’t plan to do so vocally. The creature—the woman remained where she was, utterly motionless, utterly silent. It was only when you hazarded a step towards her that she reacted at all, her wings fanning to either side as she—

Ah.

So she was hurt.

The position of her wings had hidden it before, but you could make out the cause of her distress clearly, now. From the uppermost tip of her left wing to the lowest curve stretched a jagged tear, as if someone had taken a knife to it. Instantly, a new irritation blended with your prior concern, but you forced yourself not to dwell. There were more important things to focus on, at the moment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you repeated, edging that much closer. When she curled further into herself, you paused, lowering yourself onto your knees and placing your lantern on the ground in front of you. “I understand, you’re hurt, and there’s not much I can do to help you, but—” Holding up one hand, you shoved the other into a pocket of your apron, fishing out a single, palm-sized peach. You picked it earlier, planning on eating it yourself, but you’d never been so glad to have forgotten a meal. “You… You like sweet things, right? Are you hungry?”

Tentatively, you held the peach out to her, and before you had time to process that she’d moved at all, a hand had lashed out and snatched it away. You watched with rapt interest as her lips slit apart and a pair of pointed fangs (her maxillary palps, you figured, although you couldn’t be sure) dug into the peach’s tender flesh, her curling tongue lashing out to lap at the flesh and lick up the juice dripping down her fingers. While she was distracted, you moved closer, kneeling less than a full arm’s length from her wings to better admire the way they fluttered with every little movement, seemingly indifferent to her injury. There were more details you hadn’t noticed – she wasn’t wearing any clothes, but her entire body was covered in a fine, brown setae that grew thicker around her neck and chest and thinned as it reached her face and hands. She had an extra pair of arms, too, currently crossed over her chest, tucked so neatly underneath their more expected counterparts that you hadn’t been able to see them at all from a distance. Despite everything, you found yourself smiling. “If you’re in any pain, I can help with that. And—And, if you’re sensitive to temperature, you’re more than welcome to spend the night inside, but only if you’d like—”

Your attention drifted back to her face, and immediately, you cut yourself off. Her gaze was trained not on you, but on the space behind you – more accurately, on your lantern, still where you’d left it on the grass. “Oh,” you muttered, laughing to yourself. She must’ve been more moth-like than you’d realized.

Taking it by the handle, you offered it up to her as well. “I know it’s not much, but there’s enough oil in it to last until morning. If you get cold, I can bring out some blankets, too.”

It was obvious she didn’t understand a thing you were saying, but still, she eyed the lantern wearily. After a moment, she raised the lower of her right hands, angling her fingers and flicking her wrist. As if by magic (most likely because it was, probably, by magic), a perfect ball of light appeared in her palm, stagnant for a moment before rising a few inches into the open air. Wordlessly, she held it out in your direction.

For a long moment, you were silent.

In the even longer moment following, you were also silent.

Finally, when you started to think she might lose interest in you entirely, you managed to spit something out. “C-can you do that again?”

For the first time since you’d stumbled onto her, you saw the corner of her lips quirk upward.

You spent the rest of that night watching a strange, ten-foot-tall butterfly woman conjure strings of light until the sun rose and you fell asleep in the grass.

And at the time, you didn’t know to be anything but relieved that, upon waking, she was still by your side.

~

She healed remarkably quickly – a near-transparent chitin film appearing over the missing portion of her skin within twenty-four hours of her initial appearance. Still, Leo (as you’d started calling her when you realized she could only express her own name through a series of swirling patterns of light and borderline inaudible clicking sounds) seemed to have little interest in leaving your cottage and even less in leaving your line of sight. It took her less than a full two days to start trailing after you as you did your daily work around your garden and the forest that surrounded it, less than a week to start knocking on your windows at night, pouting when you tried to explain the concept of sleep through a language barrier, and today, on your one month anniversary, you’d finally gotten her to come inside properly. Currently, she was poking through your bedroom while you worked at your desk, transferring a never-ending list of borderline meaningless statistics from your roughly handled field journal to more appropriate sheets and charts. Or, trying to work, anyway. Admittedly, it was difficult to take your eyes off of her.

And, as you heard something large and fragile hit the floor and shatter, you were forced to give up any pretense of attempting to. Sighing, you twisted around your seat and immediately found Leo, standing next to your bedside table, what used to be a lamp sitting in shattered pieces at her feet as she stared down at it with a hawk-like sort of vigilance. Her wings were tucked cautiously against her back, lips pursed in concentration. You could only shake your head, grinning as you sighed. She was smart, but curious, and painfully unfamiliar with anything remotely human. It was cute – just how little she seemed to know about you.

(You were aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that your judgement around Leo was skewed. Mostly, you could chalk it up to scientific curiosity, not wanting to disturb a live specimen as it would act in its natural habitat and all, but even you knew there must’ve been something else to it, something more selfish. It might’ve just been her naivety. It was hard to get mad at someone who didn’t know she was doing anything wrong.)

Eventually, her gaze shifted to you. “Broken,” she said, assertively.

You couldn’t stop yourself from chuckling. She was getting better at your language, even if the words still sounded somewhat awkward on her inhuman tongue. “Very broken,” you agreed, waving her over to you. “I’ll clean it up later – have a look at this for me, first.”

Turning away from her, you fished a thick, leather-bound book out of the chaos that was your desk and opened it to a marked page. “I think you might be one of these,” you said, pointing to an illustration of a half-moth, half-man type creature. Admittedly, the written description lacked many her more other-worldly traits, but there were only so many types of butterfly people to choose from. “They’re supposed to be—uh, extra-dimensional, I think, which would explain your more supernatural abilities, but they’re kind of, um—”

“Hideous. Very hideous.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “That.”

She reached over you, one left hand resting on your shoulder while the other flipped through yellowed pages. She’d only been searching for a minute or so when she seemed to find what she was looking for, pointing decisively to an illustration of an extremely beautiful woman kneeling in front of a disemboweled man’s body, her mouth dripping with blood and one of her hands still buried inside of his torn-open chest. The caption underneath it read ‘Fae, neighbors, folk of the air’ in golden illuminated manuscript.

You pursed your lips. Fairies weren’t real, but this illustration did look a lot more like Leo than yours had.

By the time you looked towards her, she’d lost interest entirely, instead fiddling with a picture frame that’d previously been on the corner of your desk. In an instant, you felt your blood run cold. You could’ve sworn you’d hidden all your framed samples before inviting her inside, found every single pinned-up dragonfly, moth, and butterfly and stuffed them all into the deepest, darkest closet you could find. You couldn’t imagine how you would’ve felt – stumbling into an alien creature home only to find a miniature version of your own carcass nailed down behind a pane of glass. She must’ve been so afr—

The frame tilted towards you, and you managed to pull yourself out of your panicked spiral long enough to realize that she was not looking at a preserved insect, but a picture of your housecat – a cute one, too, taken while she was leashed on your patio, sunbathing on her back. You sighed, sinking into your chair and smiling up at her. “That’s Missy. I thought about bringing her, but she’d be a terror on the local wildlife.” And then, more hesitantly, “Do you have any pets?”

You couldn’t imagine Leo taking care of anything, but she seemed fond enough of birds ‘and other insects. Plus, if she did have a pet, it’d tell you something about where she came from – if she had a house, or migratory season, or there were other people with wings and antenna and a spare set of limbs lurking just outside of your peripheral. It was a good place to start, but she didn’t seem to understand the question – only pursing her lips. “…Pet?”

“Like, an animal that you take care of, that you love,” you started, gesturing vaguely, as if that’d make your point any more clear. “Most people have cats and dogs, but—”

“No cats.” Her wings fluttered, her gaze narrowing at the picture. “Big teeth. Sharp claws. Violent.”

“Got it, no cats.”  You slung an arm over the back of your chair. “It’s too bad. Missy was a good girl. You two would’ve gotten along.”

She seemed to think for a long moment, considering. Finally, as one of her free hands came to rest on the top of your head, she glanced towards you. “You are… pet?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “No, no, I’m a friend. Do you know what that is?”

If she wanted to answer, she didn’t seem to think of it as a priority. Her hand fell to your chin, another rising to cup your face entirely. Her thumbs traced over your cheeks as she smiled down at you, and with an airy laugh, you melted into her palms. “Good girl,” she cooed, her voice saccharine, her tony sappy. “Very good girl.”

It would’ve been a sweeter moment if you hadn’t heard the familiar sound of glass shattering at your feet, your picture frame dropped and discarded with just as little thought.

~

As far as you could tell, her wings were necessary for flight, but not actively a part of it. As the chitin film healed over entirely, the shape and color of her wings seemed to shift, taking on a luminescent green overtone, the eyes on the upper segments fading as their lower counterparts sprouted a pair of long, curling tails. Her fur and hair followed suit, and by the time she was able to get her feet off the ground, she was practically unrecognizable as the creature you’d first taken in. You were proud of her, even if you doubted she needed your support. Or, you wanted to be, at least.

Even after Leo had all-but recovered, she stayed nearby – rarely leaving your sight for longer than an hour. If you hadn’t been so curious, you might’ve been concerned. Butterflies were short-lived, migratory creatures. It wasn’t normal for them to stay in a single place for so long, not unless they were looking for a ma—

You were drawn out of your thoughts as you felt something light hit the top of your head – flower petals, you realized, as pieces of shredded coneflower and button bush trickled down into your lap. You tilted your head back, immediately finding Leo hovering about ten feet above you; tearing apart a handful of flowers petal-by-petal. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to – grinning as she motioned for you to follow her. You didn’t bother trying to resist, only pushing yourself to your feet and trailing after her.

She landed on the very outskirts of your property – where your garden met the forest proper. It took a few minutes of wading through foliage, but eventually, you managed to join her in her makeshift clearing.

The smell of iron hit you, first.

Not rot, but blood – fresh and metallic, strong enough to make you reel back. You almost stumbled, almost tripped, but a larger hand caught your wrist, trapping you where you were. You made no attempt to pull away. No, you were too focused on the—on the corpse in front of you, all blood-soaked feathers and broken bones and spilled viscera. It must’ve been a hawk, or a falcon, something with an absolutely massive wingspan and claws to match. Any other identifying features had been crushed, bent out of shape, or reduced to a fine, liquid pulp that was slowly soaking into the ground.

Your gaze flickered back to Leo, her grin just a touch more satisfied than it’d seemed, before. “Leo,” you started, forcing an unsteady smile. “I know we talked about pets, but—”

“Not a pet.” The correction was as swift as it was sugary. “A treat. A gift.”

Huh.

You didn’t remember teaching her that one.

~

It was more startling than you would’ve expected – waking up to the feeling of feather soft hands.

You guessed that wasn’t entirely true. They weren’t feather soft, and you should’ve known better than to say they were. Velvet would’ve been more a more accurate comparison, or satin – anything soft and rich that seemed to melt where it touched your skin. You couldn’t have been waking up, either, because that would’ve meant you were asleep, and there was no way you could’ve been asleep and staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom, feeling more exhausted than you ever had before. You would’ve liked to sit up, to see what was going on, but you couldn’t seem to move.

Leo was above you, straddling your waist. In her new form, she was practically iridescent – her wings reflecting the dull moonlight as if she was the one glowing. She was summoning her lights, again – drawing strings of silver drew drops with one hang while the other shaped them absentmindedly into a ring, one large enough to fit around your thigh. Or your neck.

For whatever reason, your mind was unwilling to linger on the thought.

She lifted her head every so slightly, her inky gaze settling on you. She was already touching you, one hand cupping your cheek while another brushed through your hair, but it took you longer than it should’ve to recognize just how warm your face felt, to put a name to knotted tension resting heavy in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to push her away, but your arms felt like lead at your sides, and— oh, she was already dipping down to your height, nuzzling gently against the top of your head before her hand found your chin, raising your head as her lips found yours.

It was less of a kiss and more of a prolonged collision, her tongue slipping easily past your parted lips, raking over your own with a measured kind of slowness. Her taste was as sweet as her voice, as her touch – all honeyed nectar and syrupy ambrosia and pure, liquidized sugar. It was beyond overwhelming. It was beyond euphoric. You were melting into her before you could so much as think about stopping yourself, letting out a fractured whine as you moved her lips sloppily against hers, as the tapered tip of her tongue hit the back of your throat and—

And you drew back with a sharp gasp, shuddering as you pressed yourself into your mattress. You shouldn’t be doing this. You couldn’t do this. She wasn’t an animal but god, she wasn’t far off.

“Leo,” you managed, trying to keep your tone gentle, soothing. If she heard, you couldn’t tell – her attention only falling to the crook of your neck, then the dip of your shoulder. “I—I’m not really sure we should be doing this, and I really wish you wouldn’t touch me, and—”

“Quiet.” Just like that, your jaw went slack, that sugar sweet scent intensifying and dulling any coherent thought you might’ve had to a numb, blank static. A deep, rumbling sort of reverberation sparked in her through as she nuzzled into your chest, her body slotted against yours. While one of her hands remained on your cheek, another found the hem of your dress, toying with the fabric for a moment before moving her attention to your neckline, instead. The first tug was gentle, experimental, but her impatience must’ve won over her curiosity; the sound of tearing material filling your quiet bedroom as a single, pointed claw traced a jagged line from the base of your throat to your midriff, the ruined fabric falling away without resistance. “Useless,” she muttered, half-under her breath. “In the way.”

It was an awkward position, her back arched, her wings clasped tightly against one another, but she didn’t seem to mind – her lips trailing over your collarbone, then the curve of your breast. You shut your eyes, but it would’ve been impossible not to feel her tongue lapping shallowly over your nipple. Your hands balled around the sheets as her lips wrapped around the sensitive bud, more of whatever awful substance she produced dripping down your skin, pooling on the flat plain between your breast, spreading a terrible sort of heat to everything it touched. She rotated between sucking and laving, a hand coming up to knead at the unassulted side of your chest with just a touch too much force to be for the sake of your pleasure.

You didn’t want to feel anything. You didn’t want to react. You didn’t want to, and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the low, cracked moans and hitched whimpers spilling past your lips. Leo’s purring grew louder, her spare set of hands finding your hips as they bucked pathetically against nothing. It was almost a relief when she pulled away, lifting her head. Through your eyelashes, you watched her eyes narrow, lips pursing. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought she looked disappointed.

You tried to call out again, to tell her to stop, but your voice remained despondent as Leo repositioned herself, slipping into the space between your open legs. What was left of your nightgown as done away with entirely, and with a hand wrapped around either of your thighs, she bowed her head, her tongue dragging over the length of your clothed slit. Instantly, her expression brightened, and for the first time, you were forced to acknowledge the slow, viscous heat slowly leaking out from between your thighs, forced to listen as she hummed in delight and tore through your panties, the silk as easily defeated as your nightgown had been. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes as her tongue dragged over your now-exposed pussy, lapping up the slick staining the inside of your thighs. Her nose ground against your overly sensitive clit as she buried herself in your cunt, less focused on your pleasure and more dedicated to eating you alive – pointed teeth scraping against tender flesh as she ran the flat of her tongue over your entrance, refusing to let a single part of you go uncared for. Because she was caring for you, like a lover, like a nurse.

Like an owner.

You dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek with enough force to draw blood. She was not a lover, or an owner, and she wasn’t taking care of you – nothing about this could be called caring. You tried to snap your thighs shut, to pull yourself up, but the blunt tip of her prolonged tongue dipped into your entrance and it was all you could do to scream – the noise tearing out of your throat as something pathetic and miserable. If Leo noticed your agony, she wasn’t in a place to care, too busy curling her tongue inside of you, grinding against the clenching walls of your cunt and abusing every spot that made you shake and moan and drip. It wasn’t hard to see what she was motivated by, what she was chasing after, but knowing why she was doing this didn’t make it any easier to endure. You’d never be able to look at her again, after this. You wouldn’t be able to let her stay with you, anymore. You’d have to make her leave.

That was, if you ever found a way to.

You managed to get an arm underneath you, but it didn’t matter. Her unoccupied pair of hands clamped down around your hips, your thighs forced onto her shoulders as she straightened her back and threatened to fold you in half, all-but devouring your cunt with a renewed gluttony. Fuck. Fuck. Her tongue was too fast, too flexible; twisting inside of you, filling you entirely. The pressure on your clit, while not deliberate, wasn’t helping, and it was only a matter of time until you could feel your legs twitching where they were propped on her shoulders, until your vocalizations turned form moans to whines to muttering – all ‘stop’ and ‘no, don’t’ and ‘not there’, hasty and incoherent and humiliating. You couldn’t stop yourself, though.

You were starting to think you’d never be able to do much of anything ever again.

She didn’t stop when you came. You doubted she even noticed; her purring only growing louder, the movement of her tongue taking on a more wild sort of pattern. No, she drew back after you’d gone limp underneath her, your voice dying until those little, keening nothings were the only noise you could make. Distantly, you could feel your body being lowered back onto your bed, Leo shifting above you, then two fingers swiping over your cunt. You felt something prodding against your lips, and too exhausted to resist, opened your mouth. “Good girl,” Leo cooed, her inflection mimicking that of someone talking down to something smaller, something lesser. The taste of your own slick mixed with her saliva flooded your senses, as vile as it was saccharine. “Sweet, and pretty, and good. My good girl.”

Her head dipped, her lips finding yourself. This kiss was softer than her first, tender rather than hungry, lingering rather than desperate. As she held you there, you felt something wrap around your throat – cold as ice and soft as velvet. When you found the will to open your eyes, you looked not towards Leo’s expression, her dazzling smile, but to her right hand and the beaded silver cord tangled around it.

You didn’t have to guess what the other end was connected to.

“All mine.”

[vivalarevolution]

𝓘𝓽'𝓼 𝓞𝓴𝓪𝔂 𝓣𝓸 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓑𝓸𝓽𝓱

Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen Reader x Cregan Stark

Summary: War emerged from the shadows like an old friend, but apart from the war, there were also matters from the past that created new, unknown and dangerous affairs for her, so sinful and so forbidden. And this time she couldn't escape, getting trapped in between seahorse and a wolf.

A/N: A refreshed version of the story , that I really think is one of the better ones I've ever written. I hope you will like it , enjoy it and find it worth reading.

Please remember that english is not my native language, I do not use it on a daily basis, so mistakes can or will happen.

The work contains smut, so minors do not interact with it.

The north was cold, full of ice and snow, and the northern people were even colder. Their eyes gave the shivers, and the low and rough tone of voice made silence the only thing that escaped from the lips of strangers.

But he, Lord of Winterfell, though he seemed to be the same, was the opposite of it all.

Cregan Stark was a wolf in human skin. A man who could bend thousands with just a single glance of his gray irises. He was like fire itself, dangerous and burning under her fingers. He was vicious and wild, devouring her flesh every night, never being satisfied, always wanting more and more until there was nothing left to give.

-Cregan - she moaned into his neck, her nails creating patterns on his back that covered the old ones, not yet healed.

-Feels good, princess? - he purred into her ear, sucking on its lobe, only to kiss it after , feeling her soft skin become covered with goosebumps.

-Oh Cregan - she whimpered, unable to say anything else, repeating his name like a prayer.

The man grabbed her thighs in response, lifting her legs up, letting her ankles rest on his shoulders, gliding his lips over the flesh of her calves, moving his loins deeply and slowly, taking her breath away as she felt the head of his member kissing her cervix again and again ,mixing pain and pleasure together.

-It's so sweet...addictive when you say my name like a prayer - he murmured, lowering his face over hers, rubbing his lips against her full , soft and red, almost swollen ones - It only makes me want to devour you like a hungry wolf and make you mine forever.

-Yes, yes ... only yours - she whispered ,tangling her fingers in the man's brown hair, pulling them again and again, trying to touch his lips, even for a moment - Oh Cregan, please, please! - she moaned directly into his mouth, her lavender irises covered with a robe of crystal tears, threatening to flow out.

-How can I say no to you ,my little dragon? - Cregan asked, moving his hips so brutally and animalistic, contrasting with the controlled movements of his hands that pinned her to the bed, commanding her to take everything, not letting her escape - Take everything I give you, that's right, good girl - he growled like a hungry enraged wolf, making her fall apart before his eyes.

Woman felt as if something had crept into her veins and made her body a shell filled with lust and desire, nothing more. Her muscles went limp, almost non-existent, and her eyes closed embraced in a soothing darkness.

The man's hands were still moving, marking her skin with an electrifying sensation that made her open her eyes, to open her mouth and let his tongue out, to let the wolf prey.

-Cregan - she said quietly so that the only one who could've heard her was the man she mentioned - Kiss me, kiss me again.

Brunet bowed his head, brushing her soft, delicate lips with his, fulfilling her wish.

-You make me a hungry man. Never wanting to stop, never going to stop - he murmured, tasting her again and again, mixing their breaths together.

-No... don't say that - she moaned, feeling his hands on her sensitive breasts, trying to recapture the bit of consciousness that began to ebb away with each movement of his fingers and each kiss of his hot lips.

-That's the truth. I could never lie to you, I can only tell you the truth when I look at you - he panted, attacking her once flawless neck, which was now full of red marks and bites - You have bewitched me, my body and mind and I can't lie. No matter how much you want to hear a lie from my lips.

You have bewitched me. My body and mind.

Those words, she's heard those words before. They echoed in her head, only to sink to the bottom of her stomach, creating a knot so unbearable and painful that she wanted to scream and cry in pain.

-We are enemies...out there, we are enemies to each other - she remarked listlessly, focusing her violet eyes on the snowy window.

-Yet here we're lovers. In my arms you are my beloved, not my enemy - he replied directly to her ear, tenderly kissing the left side of her face.

-When I return to King's Landing and announce the decision of Lord of Winterfell...you will become ... only an enemy - she confessed, after a moment leveling her eyes with him.

Cregan stared intently into her pupils, black as the abyss, drawing him in.

-You are the bane of my existence. And the object of all my desires. Night and day, I dream of you - the man announced and the woman knew every word was sincere, every blink of his grey eyes ,every breath taken during his confession - So when you come back I'll be on the other side fighting to tear you away from the clutches you were born into but didn't want to live. You will be my lover my princess, never my enemy.

Days later, their conversation seemed non-existent. However, in truth, she was forgotten and hidden deep in the darkness by a woman who did not want to remember it, preferring to live in the bliss of unconsciousness. But life was cruel and was not about to let Y/n Targaryen rest, stabbing the princess's heart with long thorns of memories that flooded her like a flood as her eyes saw a familiar figure and heard a voice she once adored.

-I came here as a messenger, not a warrior - he announced and the woman didn't even know who these words were addressed to, for what purpose they were uttered but she didn't care, all she wanted to know was whether it was an illusion.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.

It seemed to her that he was standing so close to her, even though in truth he was so far away, but his brown eyes still spotted her in the darkness that surrounded her, no matter how much she tried to hide in it , no matter how she was trying to escape him. He caught her anyway ,right under the noses of the old gods.

-Let go of me - she said as his arms wrapped around her, trapping her inside of them.

-What are you doing here Y/n? Why are you here? - he asked, looking at her, his hands tightening on her body as soon as she moved harder than before.

-I'm delivering a message from my brother. Just as you doing with the message from your mother, my sister - she confessed, looking at him.

Jacaerys released her as if her words were burning, but he didn't let her go. Caging her in the form of his eyesight and body that blocked out everything but him, forcing her to focus only on the young man before her.

-Why? - he asked calmly, sounding almost hurt.

-Why? - she repeated his question, not understanding the meaning of his words, not when they were both now standing on opposite sides of the barricade as enemies - We are at war Jacaerys. There is too late to ask questions , too late to think what if.

They both fell quiet abruptly, letting the silence creep in between them, devouring them from the inside out , and none of them said anything, only staring into the eyes of the other.

-I know this war is real but I don't want to believe that in this war you chose your brother... instead of me - he confessed surprisingly quietly, surprisingly coldly.

-What was between us... it was just an illusion we lived in - Y/n replied, feeling the lump in her throat grow as her heart throbs with pain and her veins flood with anger.

-We decided to love each other - said the brunette, getting closer to the girl, more and more - It was a choice, our choice - he whispered, running his fingers along her cheekbone.

-But it was your choice to make me a woman you could love in the dark but never in the light of day. You've made promises to me before, and like a fool, I believed them. I won't be your fool again - she said firmly, pushing his hand away from her face.

-It was never my intention - he confessed quietly, trying to match her gaze, but she ran away every time - I wanted you, only you.

The white-haired woman shook her head, not believing any of his words and not wanting to listen further.

-Yet you swore to marry Baela. In front of my eyes you chose her over me - Y/n gritted her teeth, voice as cold as ice - Where was your love then, where is it now? There's a woman waiting for you, a woman who have feelings for you, and you're chasing the one you can't have.

Instead of answering, Jacaerys unexpectedly pinned her to a tree behind them, his body clinging to her like a puzzle piece, and his own hands wrapped around the hers.

-I'll always choose you - he announced, inches from her face, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers.

-Don't say that - she whispered, finally leveling her gaze with him - Don't say that. Don't say that, becasue I didn't ask for it. I didn't ask to be plagued by these feelings.

Y/n felt her heart being torn in half, allowing the memories to creep in. But then she remembered the gray irises that soothed her soul, gave her the longed-for oblivion, the hands that protected her and the voice that put her to sleep in the middle of the night.

And yet, she was no longer able to keep everything Jacaerys had once been to her, who he still was - a lover, a rock, a soulmate.

So she let it all in, let the pain tear her from inside, making her throat burn from how much she was forcing herself not to cry, and her eyes glazed almost like glass.

Brunet wanted to touch her, comfort her, but he let her escape from his embrace, letting her disappear into the depths of Godswood. Unaware that Lord Winterfell had been watching their close interaction, revealing a secret he was never meant to discover.

The night came quickly, and in the night came coldness that attacked every bone in her body. But the truth was that it wasn't the cold that was causing it but the feelings that hadn't left her for hours, taunting her.

Her lavender-colored eyes stared at the wildly dancing flames that warmed her face, giving it an orange glow, while one hand lazily glided between the fires until the door to her chamber swung open, causing her to be plucked from the ocean of thoughts, returning to the surface ,to the reality.

Cregan watched her like a wild wolf, wild as well as great, towering over the passage, blocking her only escape route.

With a look that said he knew. He knew something.

-The past can be painful - she said, her face was emotionless, but her eyes hid all the secrets that were in her - Love comes and goes like a gust of wind or a wave on the sea. I believe you know it, you loved and you lost... - she noticed reminding him of the woman who once held his heart, now she was its owner.

-We both loved and lost - he said, approaching her agonizingly slowly - And we both found love where we didn't want to look, in the arms of another - he added, kneeling in front of her, cupping her chin with his hand, stroking the smooth skin of her face with his thumb - But you my dragon , you have the opportunity to regain something that was once taken from you. I will never have that opportunity.

She wished meaning behind his words was unknown to her, but when her eyes saw Jacaerys standing by the door, hidden in the shadows just like she had been so long ago, looking at her as intensely, as passionately as he had during their affair, she knew her secret ceased to be a secret and became the truth that came to light.

-What if I don't want to? - she asked, looking straight at her nephew, wanting to see how he would react to her words - What if choosing the past makes me lose you? - she remarked more quietly, shifting her violet eyes to Lord of Winterfell.

Cregan looked at the younger brunet but it was only a moment, as if there was no need to talk between them, as if everything that was happening was planned.

-I saw your pain. I don't want to see it ever again - he announced, stroking the skin on her cheek, but her eyes still expressed uncertainty, hesitation - It's okay to love something you can't explain, it's okay to love us both princess.

-Just say the word - Jacaerys whispered right into her ear, and she turned her face towards him to almost meet his full lips in a kiss, surprised that he was right behind her ,without her knowing.

Y/n felt like she couldn't breathe, like something had crushed her lungs, preventing her from taking a breath, but as soon as she let out the first words, everything let go, the ropes were cut and the walls fell down.

-Never leave me again - she said to the boy before connecting their lips in a deep, longing kiss, tangling her slender fingers in his thick, dark curls.

She could feel the closeness of Cregan on her spine as he slid the white fabric of her nightgown off her shoulders, brushing her hair from her neck to kiss the skin in the hollow of it. His mouth was hot and possessive, completely different from Jacaerys's soft ones.

The northerner's hand slid down her body, engulfing her womanhood hidden behind the thin material of her underwear, making her whimper into her second lover's mouth as Cregan's rough fingers slid between her legs.

Y/n tried to focus on her breathing as two pairs of hands freed her from her clothes, soon to be kneeling naked between them, feeling vulnerable as their gaze devoured her.

-So wet - Lord of Winterfell muttered, playing with her puffy folds, coating his fingers in the juices that spilled from inside of her.

-So sweet , just for us - Jace said, sliding his hand down her neck, resting his lips on her jaw, planting sensual kisses there.

-Just for you ,both of you - she whispered, feeling herself falling into a state of blissful erotic drunkenness.

-You'll gonna feel us for weeks in your little pussy - Cregan added, slipping his finger into her center , rubbing against her bum.

The younger man kissed her again, his hand still on her neck, squeezing it every time she took a breath into her lungs, while the northerner continued to assault flower of her womanhood, making her leak on her inner thighs. Her abdomen burned with lust.

-You'll be good to us, won't you? - Jacaerys panted heavily into her mouth.

Girl nodded, no longer able to find her voice. Her toes curled from how close she was , how close she was to be pushed over the edge, but just as she was about to fall, all movements stopped.

-You won't cum until we say - Cregan said with a trace of malice in his voice, licking her juices from his fingers - You've been hiding your affairs form both of us. You deserve a punishment.

Both men stood up as she sat on her knees, naked before their eyes, letting them savor the sight of her fair skin.

Her attention was focused on Cregan while Rhaenyra's son was busy with his pants.

Her hand slid up and down his erection, squeezing him here and there , while her thumb stroked the vein on the side of his thick member and  the head, smearing his precum to use as lubricant.

-Aren't you forgetting something little dragon? - Lord of Winterfell asked with a low growl, forcing her to turn to Jacaerys. His manhood, erected, pointed directly at her red lips, waiting. Its top shone with a transparent substance and Y/n leaned closer to lick it while her small hand continued to run along Cregan's shaft.

Taking Jace into her mouth, she pressed her tongue against his member as he slid down her throat. His long fingers tangled between her white curls, pulling at the roots just enough to make her whimper softly, and the vibrations traveled through his shaft to his spine, causing his head to drop with a groan.

-Just like that, good girl - Cregan murmured, her stomach jumping at his words and her chest spread with warmth.

Her thumb traced slow, enticing circles around the northern man's head before she slipped the other lover's member out of her mouth, focusing now on the wolf, kissing the tip of his manhood and licking it from the base. She felt his body twitch under her fingers as she swallowed him, running her hand over the part she couldn't reach.

-You're doing so well my love - Jacaerys praised her, pressing her head into Cregan's member until she choked.

When the young woman felt she was no longer controlled by the hand on her head, she pulled away from both men, taking in air into her lungs, panting breathlessly.

-Come on princess, let the wolf get a taste - the older brunette said, reaching out to pull her up and then kiss her as she stood in front of them.

The kiss was messy, wild, making her cheeks covered in saliva and precum.

-On the bed - Jace broke the kiss abruptly, grabbing the nape of her neck to make her look at him, slapping her left asscheek and striking it again as he felt her soft body tremble at his touch.

-Spread your legs, little dragon - Cregan said, standing beside the prince while she lay down on the furs in front of them - Show us what is ours.

Y/n propped her legs up on the bed, opening herself up.

-Play with yourself - sounded the next command and the girl didn't even know who said it, being clouded with desire.

A finger glided up and down her wet and swollen folds with ease, and her body quickly began to tremble as she ran it over her clit, circling the sensitive nub.

-Put those pretty fingers inside your pussy - came the next words, in a low and menacing tone that sounded almost animal-like.

Moving her hand down to her center, she did as she was told. Her hips met the movements of her hand as she moved, trying to find her sweet spot, meowing miserably every time when she failed.

-Faster - Cregan said - Come on, show us how pretty you look when you cum.

Playing with her like this, telling her what to do with her burning womanhood made her cum with tears in her eyes, and a feeling of her legs shake intensely. And before her senses could have return to her, Jacaerys laid down next to her, pulling Y/n against his warm, muscular body for her to wrap her legs around his waist in response, pressing her breasts against his chest as his big member rubbed against her puffy clitoris.

-I need to feel you around me - he murmured, grabbing her hips, rubbing her against his manhood, watching her release drip onto his shaft.

At the thought, the young woman could feel her walls tightening and her heart involuntarily jumping into her throat. And when he entered her, stretching her walls that he almost tearing her apart, it made her moan loudly, burying her face in his neck.

Cregan, however, gave her no time to adjust to her other lover, unable to help himself as her femininity struggled to take the prince all inside her, leaving a ring of white ,creamy substance behind.

Y/n felt the bed sink behind her, and soon the northernman's member entered her wet ,tight canal, leaving her breathless. Mixing pleasure with pain.

-You're doing so well , my good girl - said Lord of Winterfell, kissing her bare shoulder blades, covering them with bites and red marks - You taking us both so good ,aren't you? Your sweet pussy was made for us - his voice, though low and dangerous, trembled here and there as her walls tightened around the two members.

Her face was wet with tears and saliva as they mercilessly pounded her cervix. Their hands were all over her body, holding her in place as they feasted on her body, and all she could do was moan and mewl, taking everything they were giving her.

-She's so drunk on the feeling - Jacaerys said, watching her expression , when his lips weren't attacking her skin.

-It's so easy to break our little dragon - the older brunette added, pushing his hips out, grabbing her bum - But she looks so beautiful when she's broken, making me never want to stop.

Woman felt her body flooded with a wave of hot flames, which made her walls tighten, stopping their movements almost completely, making both of them, unable to stop themselves, and cumming deep inside her, filling her to the full, while a pleasant familiar warmth flooded her lower body, flowing from her after a while, which made her tremble, falling helplessly onto Jacaerys' torso.

The smell of sex filled the air like an intoxicant that possessed their minds that were already clouded with lust.

And so the seahorse and the wolf feasted on the white-haired dragon. Over and over and again , never wanting to stop.

[pudimsuki]

Behaviour adjustment | Yandere Hawks x reader

Yandere Hawks? Yandere Hawks.

Tw.: Yandere themes; dark content; abusive relationship; implied kidnapping; pussy spanking; non/dub-con; 18+ content, MDNI.

"Now, now, what should we do about this, hm?"

The sword-like feather traveled over your body. You shuddered when you felt the tip grazing your right nipple.

"Please, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll be good, I promise."

"Shhh", he coos, caressing your cheek while your chest rose with your uncontrollable cries. "We talked about this, my dove. Actions have consequences."

You sob audibly. "No, Keigo, please. I'm so sorry."

The winged pro hero only smiled at you. Sweetly, others would say, but his eyes tell no lies.

Hard, sharp, hawk eyes.

"I know you are, little bird. But we need to fix this behavior. It's becoming a pattern at this point." He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head slightly.

You couldn't deny it if you were to be honest. Ever since Takami Keigo, the charming hero you once gushed over, took you in — as in literally kidnapping you — five months ago, you repeated the never-ending cycle: Him trying to flood you with his over-sick love; you fighting against it; he punishing you for it; you seeking some kind of comfort; him trying to flood you with his over-sick love... And all over again.

Right now, you find yourself kneeling in front of him, naked as the day you were born, hands tied behind your back using one of his feathers. Your chest is thrust out towards him and your legs spread apart as part of his first punishment, designed to make you feel as vulnerable as possible. This is always how it begins, he would bare you to him, making you expose yourself as he lectured you on all the things you did wrong. Then, he proceeds to tell you exactly what your punishment would be, raising your anxiety even before he starts to act.

All this because you refused to sit still as his pretty little wife should do and eat dinner from the fork he was offering you, choosing to spit it on him as a rebel act. Not your best move, you now see. Looking back, you would give everything to just return to the beginning of the night and let him hand-feed you as he wishes, pretending to be a romantic, sugary-sweet couple.

His wings rose behind him, making him look even bigger. "So, little bird, what should we do, uh?"

"Please, Keigo, my love." You force the sickening words out, just how he likes. "Can we please go back to dinner? I promise I'll be good, you can feed me, just pl-"

"Oh? Am I your love now?" His expression didn't change. Sweet, charming face with eyes as sharp as the feather-blade he holds in his grip. "How did you call me just a moment ago again?"

"I... I'm so-"

"That's not what I asked you." 

Your lips quivered. “I c-called you sick.”

“Hm? Is that so?” The feather goes up until the tip is playing with your throat. “Are you sure, dove?”

“S-sick-fuck.”

“Now that’s what I remember.” He patted your cheek with the flat part of the feather, as if praising you. You close your eyes in reflex. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”  

Your eyelids open in a second, body recognizing his harsh tone and obeying like second nature. You know you can’t move if you don’t want to make him furious, because in five months you find out that, as bad as this is, he can be much, much worse. So you just brace yourself internally and endure.

“So,” he walks closer to your frame, shadowing you. “Would a sick-fuck take care of you like I do? Feed you? Love you?”

You shook your head, trying your best not to cry, move, close your legs, or do anything that would make this really, really bad for you.

“What else did you do?”

“I spat food on you.”

“Do you think you deserve to eat dinner at the table with me right now?”

“No.” You croaked, voice barely audible.

“We could have been cuddling on the couch right now, angel. You know I hate to punish you, don’t you?”

“Yes, my love.” The words are poisonous in your tongue. Just a glance at his bulging pants would tell you exactly how much of a lie that was. Keigo Takami enjoyed everything that had to do with you, especially your punishments.

The long feather went down slowly, passing through the valley between your breasts, touching your navel, and finally, to your dread, you felt the crimson material touch your more sensitive part. Keigo smiled sweetly at you as you tried your best to keep from closing your legs shut, softening the feather just enough not to cut you. Suddenly, he flexed his arm, bringing it down and up in a flash. 

You shriek loudly, breaking position and landing on your side with your legs pressed closed. Keigo just hit your folds with the feather like a whip, his pro hero strength making it worse than it should be. You felt the sting with only one strike.

“Get back.” He pointed at the place you were mere seconds ago, as an owner would to a pet.

You look up at him with blurry eyes. “No, Keigo, please.”

“Get back to your position or I’ll make you.” You sobbed, scrambling to do as he told with your arms still tied behind your back. “Spread wide.”

“I’ll be good, Keigo, please. I’m so..”

“Hold your pose. If you close your legs or try to get away, I’ll make it worse.”

If his words weren’t convincing enough, you knew his tone very well at this point to believe he would. You pressed your knees on the cold floor, pushing your chest out and legs open like you knew he enjoyed. You were shaking. 

“Deep breaths, angel.” He softened his tone, the bastard. “We need to correct your behaviour. Let’s work together, yeah?”

Your nails dig crescent moons in your palms as you tried to nod, in a weak attempt to please him.

“Good girl, that’s my good angel.” He praised, caressing your face before pushing his arm back, feather working like a whip in his hand. You braced yourself for the impact.

SWISH

You cry out when it made contact with your sensitive pussy, falling back again despite his warnings. 

“Angel, we talked about this.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You sobbed, trying to get back as soon as possible, while he looked at you as a misbehaving child. 

SWISH

Your voice rose again, but this time you took extra effort not to fall, only closing your legs slightly before correcting yourself. Keigo didn’t soothe you, waiting.

SWISH

SWISH

SWISH

The strikes in your sensitive folds didn’t falter in strength and precision, and as he kept going, you felt like your lower parts were on fire, knowing you would feel the effects of that punishment for days. The worst part was trying to maintain the position he wanted you to, knowing that it wouldn’t end soon until you could keep from flinching too hard.  

SWISH

SWISH

SWISH

SWISH

You were straight up crying right now, losing count of how many hits you received. Your tights shook with the effort, and your mind fought against all your instincts of hiding away from the pain. Keigo didn’t only want you to get hurt; he wanted you to willingly surrender your will to him, participating actively in your own punishment, as if you had any other choice.

“Last one, now.”

You watched through blurry eyes as he prepared himself for the next blow, having two seconds to steel yourself before it came back, full strength. You were getting better at keeping your pose, but you definitely weren’t ready for this one. Now, you were sure that he was holding himself back before, because nothing could stop you from falling and curling into a ball on the floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you cried, sobbing, terrified that he would start all over again for your breach of position. You barely noticed Keigo’s hands cradling you as his feathers released your wrists from their grip. 

“Shh, shh, that’s my good angel. We’re almost done, dove.”

“N-no, no Keigo, please, no more.” You were hyperventilating at this point, anxiety hitting you hard.

“Hey, hey, no more whipping, baby bird. Calm down. How did we practice? Deep breaths, come on, breathe with me, baby.”

You follow his lead, without the mental strength to hate yourself for needing him at this moment. “Please, Keigo.” You begged, gripping his shirt to ground yourself.

“It’s almost over, love. But we need to do one more thing for your behavior adjustment. Can you do that for me, angel? It’ll be good again when we get over this.”

He gave you a minute to steady your breath, praising you and stroking your hair. When you finally calmed down, he kissed you on your cheekbone and pushed himself up to his feet again. To your horror, you immediately missed his warmth.

“On your knees again, sweet thing. Almost over.”

You didn’t even try to resist as you obeyed this time. Looking up at his tall frame with red, puffy eyes. 

“You’re so damn pretty, my angel. But you did hurt my feelings, you know that, right?” He sighed. “All you need to do is accept your place in this house, and everything will be perfect again.”

Keigo pulled his hair back before a wicked glint appeared in his golden eyes, wings flapping with a sick excitement. “Well, I guess since you had such a smart mouth to call me that bad name and to spit on my face…” You wanted to shrink into yourself at his words, almost opening your mouth to apologize again, but his gaze told you not to interrupt him. “I think it needs a little lesson as well. Maybe tonight, what you really need is a different diet. You know, another thing to swallow.”

Dread pooled in your belly, along with utter disgust. You could see it tightening his pants. He was hard, rock hard. Hawks could be a Greek god for the media, but to you, he was nothing but your kidnapper. The man who took away your life, your job, your family, your friends. The man who keeps you locked in his big, stupid, empty house, cleaning and cooking like a good little housewife. The one who gets turned on as you cry in pain.  

He must have seen that rebellious thought written all over your face, because in a second his discarded long feather were flying to his hand again. He clicked his tongue. 

“Guess your pretty pussy isn’t sore enough, uh? Let’s try that again before we come back for this second part.”

Your eyes opened like saucers when he rolled his right shoulder, as if preparing his arm to start another whipping round.

“What, no! No, Keigo, please, it’s enough.” Your legs pressed against each other in reflex, and you whimpered when your pained flesh made contact with it. 

“No?” He sounded amused, tilting his head in false confusion. “I’m not sure you learned your lesson, baby bird. We need to make this really clear, don’t you think?”

“I learned,” you were quick to answer, soreness very vivid on your lower half. “I promise.”

“Did you? Let me see, uh?” He crouched in front of you and you almost flinched back before you stopped yourself. “C’mon, show me how sore it is.”

Be good. Be good and it’ll be over. Just be good. You repeated internally. He would get what he wanted one way or another.

Swallowing all your pride and drawn in humiliation at his little mischievous grin, you slowly spread your legs to him, face and chest hot in shame. 

“Oh, look at that.” He snickered and you almost cry again. “Isn’t that a pretty color, hm?” His hand reached out, two fingers finding your swollen abused clit. You whimpered, closing your legs on his arm. He breaths a laugh, rolling his fingers slowly. “You want this, angel? Want to feel good?”

“Please, Keigo.” You beg, closing your eyes, forcing yourself to be steady for him.

“Tell me, is it sore enough? Be honest.”

You nod your head quickly. 

“Use your words.”

“It’s sore, Keigo, please, I learned, please.”

“Aw, poor baby. Want me to make it better?” His skilled fingers travelled up and down, and you bucked your hips, whimpering again. “Say it.”

“Yes, please.”

“Please, what?”

Your mind was carrying you away, starting to get lost in the feeling of his digits on you. “Please, Keigo, make it better.”

“Aw, that’s too bad, uh?” You blinked, surprised. “Should have thought about that before misbehaving.” 

SMACK.

“Ah!” You screamed, falling back, hot pain flashing again when he slapped your clit. Hard. 

“On your knees.” His tone was changed, cold, dark. He got up again, the shadow of his giant wings covering you. “Show me how sorry you are, and we can forget about this. You’re not cumming tonight. I am. And you’re gonna swallow it all. Open it, tongue out.”

Your lips quivered as you watched him unbutton his pants, soon revealing his girth. Long and veiny.  

You hated him. You hated him. You hated him.

And yet again, here you were, opening your mouth like a trained pet. He positioned himself in front of you, tip touching your tongue. You almost recoil at the taste of his pre-cum dripping on it.

You knew better.

“C’mon, I’m waiting.”

Working your courage, you licked a path from his base to his tip, and for a moment, delighted yourself when Keigo moaned, throwing his head back. Yes, you could pretend that this was you in control, your doing. So you repeated, slower.

“Fuck, angel!” He groaned, hand flying to the top of your head. “Put it in.”

You almost snickered. Yes, you were doing that. Big, strong Hawks could beg if he so wishes. You did it again. 

His eyes snapped at you, wild. “Playing games? I’ll show you a game.”

Before you could react, he grabbed a handful of your hair and pushed your head back, hurting your neck. You gasped, and in a second, your mouth was filled.

“Keiugh.” You try to say his name, eyes bulging as you feel his hard member going all the way in without further preparation. A sudden cough rose in your chest, gag reflex working its way faster than it should. He held you there for a moment, and you pushed at his legs, tears forming in your eyes as you felt your breath faltering.

One. Two. Three.

You gasped, sucking in the air audibly when he finally pulled out. Your chest rose and fell. 

“I gave you a chance, dove. I’ll lead from now on. Open.”

“Wait, pleas-hmmm!”

He didn’t gave you any other warning before starting to face-fuck you. Hard and fast. 

You gripped his tights, trying your best to breathe through it. 

“Fuck, angel. Just like that. Gonna sleep with a cum-filled belly and a burning pussy, yeah?”

The grip on your hair didn’t loosen as he kept face-fucking you for his own pleasure. It wasn’t about you. It was never about you. Tears wetted your cheeks, your throat burned.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

It was like an eternity. Your eyes rolled back when he pushed your head all the way in, nose touching his pelvic bone. Keigo let out the sinful of moans when he finally, finally, exploded in your mouth, hot ropes of cum filling your throat.

You gagged again, but he held you steady. When you thought you wouldn’t handle anymore, he stepped back, hand still holding your head up. You felt like breathing again.

“Fuck, angel.” He cursed under his breath, taking a good look at you. 

Messy, crying, glistened face. Fucked up. All his.

“Open your mouth, show me.”

You did as you were told, like a robot. Throat sore, pussy sore, jaw slack. 

Keigo smiled, panting, seeing the way you swallowed it all. He bent over to your face, caressing it with both hands, as a caring lover would do.

“So, baby bird.” He laughed to himself, as if telling an inside joke. “Enjoyed your dinner?”

Ok, this was supposed to be a drabble... I get carried away. Oopsie.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Love you. Angie <33

[theteablogger]

You may have already noted this, but Andy's claims on twitter about being able to understand what his sparrow is saying (and thus sparrow language in general) seem to be ramping up in unbelievability- apparently yesterday the bird was able to communicate that it didn't want its conversation with other sparrows recorded and shared. Andy makes mention of several of his followers who have apparently been having FaceTime calls with the bird. There's at least 5-6 of Andy's followers who consistently comment on the bird updates and show no credulity, expressing how much they want to be able to communicate with the bird like Andy does. It's probably not the biggest deal, but the whole thing has just been giving me an odd vibe. Feels like Andy once again making friends/followers by demonstrating abilities and knowledge no one else has.

Yes, his allegedly deep connection with sparrows has been getting weird for quite a while. He says he can understand some of their language, enough to relay things that the flock outside his house is talking about and things that Nuggie communicates to him. On top of that, Andy has written about things like Nuggie watching movies and musicals and following every emotional beat, to the point of showing the characters his malformed feet to offer encouragement when they're lacking confidence. Andy is anthropomorphizing the hell out of that little bird. Meanwhile, his followers praise him for knowing sparrows better than ornithologists do.

I've lived with a parrot before, for many years, and I bonded very closely with him. I agree that birds are much smarter and more emotionally complex than most people realize. But they're not humans. Their thoughts and feelings are not exactly like ours and we have no way to know exactly what's going on in their heads. Projecting onto them can lead to misunderstandings of their behavior and needs. Andy seems to be taking good care of Nuggie, from what I can tell--bearing in mind that we only have his word for it--but that doesn't mean he's right about everything.

Here's the thread you mentioned:

Here's Andy in November, writing about Nuggie's "phone flock":

Here's a thread from October, featuring Andy's musings on sparrow language. Friendly reminder that he is neither an ornithologist nor a linguist.

Note that at the end, he specifies that he's not Dr. Doolittle and doesn't speak or 100% understand sparrows' language...but he's still claiming a level of understanding that no one else has.

And here's Andy in August, wishing that he could communicate effectively with Nuggie and then having an actual conversation with him:

Those are some awfully complex ideas for a member of a non-human species to understand and respond to appropriately.

I'm not trying to suggest that Andy is forming another cult based around his bird, but like you said, Anon, it's notable that he is once again positioning himself as someone who has a special ability that no one else has. He's also repeating an old pattern in making himself the sole conduit to communicate with someone who holds a great deal of emotional significance for people. Back in the day, it was any of 160+ "others", and later, the DAYDverse/Harry Potter characters; now, it's a rescued sparrow with a disability, whom a lot of people apparently find inspiring.

[nephynes]

this is so random but i can’t stop thinking about being jake’s new neighbor

════════════════════════════

He notices you the first week you move into the apartment two doors from his, not because you’re loud, not because you knock on his door asking to borrow sugar or anything cliché like that. No, in fact you’re quiet. Oddly quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you subtly interesting. The kind of quiet that makes him look up every time he hears soft footsteps in the hallway, just to check if it’s you again.

You always offer the same polite little nod in the elevator, hoodie up, headphones in, a tote bag with some graphic design of blood spatter or something equally disturbing. And Jake? Jake’s never been so interested.

He figures you for shy at first—keeps his greetings simple, non-threatening, a little smile here and there, even when you’re clearly surprised by how big he is up close. But it’s when he sees the neale hoodie on you that’s clearly worn often, he thinks he finally has to say something.

“You watch Eleanor Neale?” he asks, genuinely curious, but also just…starving for more than a quiet nod from you.

And you light up like someone turned on a switch in you.

Your eyes go wide, your mouth opens, and then you just talk. Not small talk—real talk. Detailed, passionate, borderline obsessed talk. About wrongful convictions and criminal psychology and the way some youtubers sensationalize trauma and how Eleanor never does that. You say something about victim-centered storytelling and patterns in repeat offenders and Jake is barely breathing.

He’s not following half of what you’re saying because he’s just watching you. You’re fidgeting with your sleeve, words tumbling out faster than your thoughts, and your voice is a little breathy, unsure if you’re annoying him, if you’re weird, if you should stop. But he doesn’t want you to stop.

You finally trail off with a sheepish little laugh and a “Sorry, that was probably so much,” and Jake just swallows hard and says, “No. Keep going.”

And that’s when the real problem starts.

Because now you’re on his mind all the time. You, with your oversized sweatshirts and whispered elevator hellos. You, whose voice shakes a little when you talk but turns confident when you’re passionate. You, whose merch is weird and niche and makes him want to know everything about you.

Jake is so used to girls throwing themselves at him, used to loud energy and direct signals. But you? You’re a puzzle. A sweet, kind of morbid, probably-overthinking-it puzzle with a crush on criminal psychology and a tendency to mumble when you’re nervous.

And it drives him insane.

He’ll be spotting Heeseung at the gym, sweating like crazy, and suddenly remember the way you said, “I mean, technically, blood droplets can’t travel that far unless—” and his dick goes hard.

There’s a kind of madness to the crush, and it spreads in his brain like fungus—quiet, slow and inevitable. He starts listening for your door. Pausing his music when he hears footsteps. He’s never been into true crime before, but now he knows more about false confessions and victimology than he ever asked for, all because he keeps watching the videos you mentioned.

All because he wants to keep up. For you.

And worst of all?

He wants to ruin you. He wants to watch you fall apart beneath him, that quiet little voice gone breathless and wrecked cause his cock is dragging along your squishy walls just right. He wants to fuck you stupid, then pull you into his chest after and whisper, “Tell me more about blood spatter, baby.”

════════════════════════════

• a/n: anyone else watch eleanor neale? that is my QUEEN

[whenmemorydies]

White supremacist capitalist patriarchy and season 4 of The Bear

I hear folks who are absolutely pissed that it looks like season 4 of The Bear ended with a petulant Carmy who got knocked off his pedestal, running cos now he doesn't know what to do with himself. I hear the anger. I also viscerally raged as I binge watched last night. For me, a lot of this had to do with the idea that this white man who is so used to being excellent, now has to deal with maybe not being excellent. But instead of dealing, it looks like he's vanishing. Like his dad did. Repeating old patterns.

But on a very rough night's sleep worth of reflection, I've come to the conclusion that this is probably a legerdemain. Let me explain.

Carmy is part of a system - white supremacist capitalist patriarchy to be exact. And that system ascribes roles and expectations on everyone that gets subjected to it. Including white folks. I've talked about Carmy's racialisation here but the TLDR of it is that Carmy is part of the Italian-American community that has been assimilated into whiteness over time in America. As a white man he sits at the top of a racial hieriarchy with a history and current reality of horrendous violence and control. He grew up and worked in cultures that valorised a toxic, violent, white masculinity that expected him to perform excellence, dominate and control everything around him as a result.

The rest of us - particularly racialised women (I'm a non-Black, diasporic woman of colour so I can't speak to Syd's specific experience but I think this holds true for all WOC) - we are never expected to dominate. We are often expected to be excellent because of the time and resources invested in us by our parents and communities and because of white supremacist capitalist patriarchy's insistence that mediocrity is a luxury that only white folks get to enjoy without being penalised. This garbage catch-22 is most starkly articulated by Syd during her nightmare in 4x08 Green:

Syd: And then, you're gonna take a perfect little sliver of chive, put that all on top, and it'll be great. And of course, if your dish fails, its no worry at all, no trouble, really. You'll just be a complete waste of space and a failure and a disappointment to anybody who's devoted any time or energy to you.

So how does a white man like Carmy - who was never socialised to be of service in community, who was raised throughout childhood and his career to smoke others, to prove that he could smoke others ("fuck you, watch this") - how does that white man navigate a world where he's no longer the best? Where he's no longer in control?

If that white man was integrated and mature? Well he wouldn't have been trying to dominate in the first place. But for argument's sake and in this context, if this hypothetical white man was those things - integrated and mature - maybe, he might take a step back and let others lead.

But Carmy isn't integrated. He's not there yet. Realistically, he does have to unlearn a lifetime of abuse, socialisation, racialisation and his own dysfunctional coping strategies so that he doesn't keep hurting people. He does have to figure out who he is without all of this bullshit. Honestly, as infuriating as this was to watch...I get it?

The frustration is that we, the viewers, have seen all the characteristics that Carmy identifies in Syd in that fight from 4x10, in him too. In 4x10, Carmy tells Syd:

You are considerate. You...You allow yourself to feel things, right? You allow yourself to care. You are a natural leader and teacher.

Across this show, we have seen Carmy be considerate of others, most significantly of the BIPOC people in his life (bringing all the crew at The Beef over with him to The Bear, giving his chef's knife to Tina, making Sydney The Bear's captain), we have seen him deeply feel (see Carmy's long overdue confrontation of his abuser, Chef David Fields in 3x10), we have seen him care (see Carmy's incessant checking in with Syd throughout this show), and we've seen him lead and teach his team (see Carmy walking the crew through how to make chicken piccata in season 1).

We know that Carmy is good. We know that he's deserving of Syd's love and that she is more than deserving of his. We know that folks can chew gum and walk at the same fucking time and so we - I mean most definitely me - yell at the TV screen (and on this platform lol): WHAT THE FUCK MAN? GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER AND BE THERE FOR SYDNEY, THE OTHER HALF OF YOUR HEART!!!!

But Carmy, and a lot of other straight, white men (and white women, quite frankly), probably don't know this about themselves. They probably don't know that its not being a soft shitty bitch when you're considerate of others, that you can feel hurt and pain and survive it, that you can care about others and have that be a strength, and that you can lead quietly and consistently without swinging your dick and trying to smoke motherfuckers.

I mean, America. Look at who the majority of white voters - that's white men and white women - elected to lead your country, for fucks sake.

This is white supremacy culture at work. This is the Berzatto's intergenerational, racialised trauma at work. White supremacist capitalist patriarchy facilitates the conditions for white people to not know themselves in their wholeness. To not know who they are in relation to others and the world. In fact, it invites everyone into this condition (via assimilation). So how do you resist it?

Integration time

How will Carmy fix it? How will he integrate?

Carmy will need to learn about himself. In 4x09 Tonnato, Donna tells him that she doesn't know him and he doesn't know her. This is true.

There is work to be done here in terms of understanding his lineage and the history that makes up Carmy's very skin and bones. But he has already begun doing this: Carmy knowing about tonnato because of his culinary training and imparting that cultural knowledge to his Italian-American mother because she's lost that knowledge or never had it to begin with made me tear up because THIS is the work of integration. Of reclaiming your history. Of resisting assimilation. It fucking hit me in the chest, right in my displaced, diasporic heart.

If Carmy was paying attention, he would have also seen Richie doing this throughout season 2. Recall his basement chat with Carmy in 2x01:

Richie: You know, um, I'm trying really hard to be on board with all this new shit, cousin. I'm, uh, I'm reading a lot. I'm trying to learn about who am I to my history.

Likewise, Sydney spent all of season 2 studying and integrating her past trauma into effective leadership for her team. I know for certain that we are going to learn and see more about Sydney's history in season 5 (if the show gets picked up again) and how this has influenced her professionally and personally.

But then what? What will Carmy do after he's undertaken that work?

This is where Luca's plotline is crucial and not just as a vehicle for us to gush over him and Marcus (which, yes, I gushed. I'm still gushing. They're adorable, supportive of one another and an indecently attractive couple).

Recall the conversation between Luca and Tina in 4x08 Green:

Luca: Pressure.

Tina: How do you get rid of it?

Luca: I think you get to a point where you don't want to. Like, at first the pressure sucks, right? Its the pressure that makes you feel shitty at what you do. And actually, thats just the pressure getting in the way. You learn to live with it. And then, next thing you know, you thrive on it. And before you know it, you can't fucking wait to get rocked. Like, you want that pressure, you need that pressure to be able to perform.

Tina: *looks dubious* (me and you both my Queen lmao)

Luca: So, then, the challenge actually becomes, can you live without that pressure?

Tina: Can you?

Luca: I guess not. 'Cause I'm back here working for Carmy again, so...I'm probably not the person to ask, but you let me know if you find out, Chef.

What Luca is describing, a state of not being able to wait to get rocked? That might be fine every now and then for motivation's sake. But what Luca is describing is a state of mind that folks are expected to be in for the duration of their working lives. He's telling Tina how to survive if she wants to remain working in this system. Wanting to get rocked, learning to live with getting rocked sounds the tagline for any ad selling white supremacist capitalist patriarchy to the masses: With our centuries-old system, you too can learn how to tolerate getting fucked, regularly!

Problem is, we are humans, not replicants (shout out to Richie and Phillip K Dick), and we don't take kindly to being fucked every day of our working lives. The Bear knows this too. Recall Mikey answering Tina's question about whether he likes his work, in 3x06 Napkins: "I definitely do not like never not being fucked."

So the question is, once you become accustomed to this way of life, like Carmy has, like Luca was, like many of us are, can you conceive of a different world? A different way of being?

I know Luca tells Tina in the above convo that he isn't there yet but truthfully, he is. Luca comes back to Chicago to "address things and not run away from things" as he tells Marcus in 4x08 Green. Those things involve his family, namely his sister. He's there to address something to do with his roots. In doing so, he says its made him appreciate the city. He, like Richie, is doing the work of learning about who he is to his history.

To give himself the space to do this, he's come to The Bear to work as a stage - one of the lowest level staff in the hierarchy of a restaurant. This is someone who once worked as a sous at Ever - ranked the best restaurant in the world at one point. He's using the skills he has acquired in the course of his pretty decorated career to support others who have not yet had the same opportunities as him.

Luca is at The Bear, doing the quiet, consistent work I've previously talked about: that work that creates the safe space for inspiration, creativity and dreams to thrive. This is the work of being in community. Luca is in community with Marcus, with Tina, with Gary, with Carmy, with Sydney. He is - without ego - supporting and mentoring Tina and Marcus. Luca is resisting (whether consciously or unconsciously) a white supremacist capitalist patriarchal system that would ordinarily demand that he dominate The Bear's kitchen. In doing so, he's being a good culinary ancestor. Next season, should we get it, it will be Carmy's turn: to come back integrated, sure in himself and without ego, to be there to support (in any way she requires it) Sydney.

And by the way, for the record:

In a world where Black women were the single biggest voting block consistently and overwhelmingly using their generations-long-fought right to vote to protect America from itself fascism in 2016, 2020 and 2024, this statement from Carmy:

[A]ny chance of any kind of good in this building, it started when you walked in. And any possibility of it surviving? Its with you.

….is as much about the salvation of The Original Beef of Chicagoland's soul by Sydney, as it is about the United States of America’s by Black women.

[yuzujjn]

𝑓 . . ﹙ ✉️ ﹚ ATTRACTED TO YOU, loser jake ────𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖾, 𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎

( 𝑓𝗍) ㅤ 𓈒 심재윤 & fem!rea 5OO ── dis skinship, kissing, petnames, loser au fluff, non idol au ୨୧ established relationship + C𝑙𝑖CK

다니 ⠀⦂⠀happy @yuons day (> <) we were talking about loser enhypen today so i was trying so hard not to spoil this . ㅠㅠ anyways LOVE YOU JUNIPONI

JAKE PUSHES HIS GLASSES UP AGAIN, fingers brushing against the bridge of his nose as he glances down at the textbook between you. he’s been explaining the same physics problem for the past five minutes, voice animated, hands gesturing in excitement as he scribbles equations onto the paper.

you, however, haven’t been paying attention.

not even a little bit.

"—so when you account for external forces, the net force is—"

you stare at him, chin propped up on your palm, watching the way he bites his lip in concentration. the way his eyes light up when he gets lost in thought. the way he occasionally pushes his glasses up when they slip down his nose.

he's so into it, so completely in love with explaining physics to you, and god, it’s cute.

"are you even listening?" he suddenly asks, turning to you with a frown.

"mhm," you hum, offering him an easy smile.

he squints. “then what’s the formula for force?”

“...love?”

jake sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “this is why you’re failing physics.”

“this is why you’re my tutor,” you shoot back, straightening up. “but you know, i was just thinking. what if we make this more fun?”

jake raises a brow. "like what?"

you grin, shifting closer to him. "one correct answer, one kiss."

he freezes.

his ears immediately turn red, his fingers tightening around his pen as he stares at you like you’ve just suggested something illegal.

"what."

"one correct answer, one kiss," you repeat, nudging his knee with yours. "i think it'll help me focus."

he blinks at you, "that… theoretically wouldn’t work."

"oh?" you tilt your head. "why not?"

"well," he starts, pushing his glasses up again—stalling. "if we consider the concept of positive reinforcement, then yes, a reward system could enhance learning, but in this case, the variable is flawed because—"

you stare.

"—the stimulus, being, um, a kiss, is too subjective to quantify in terms of effective learning patterns, and if the goal is information retention, then—"

"jake."

"—introducing an external factor like physical affection could actually act as a distraction rather than a reinforcement, so theoretically—"

you kiss him.

his glasses bump against your cheek, and he makes a small, surprised noise in the back of his throat, instantly going still.

when you pull away, he’s frozen in place, eyes wide, lips parted.

"see?" you murmur, smiling. "works just fine."

jake blinks once. then twice. his fingers twitch where they rest on the textbook, and his lips part slightly, like he's about to say something, but nothing comes out.

you bite back a laugh. "you okay there, einstein?"

he swallows, clearing his throat. "yeah.. i think,"

you grin. "so. next question?"

his ears are still red as he glances at the book, voice slightly hoarse when he says, "what’s the acceleration due to gravity on earth?"

you shrug. "no clue."

jake exhales sharply, tilting his head back like he’s trying to gather what’s left of his dignity. “i can’t believe this,” he mutters.

you grin. “come on, next question.”

[jennxxe]

Sequence interrupted.

pairing — death x fem! reader (final destination)

summary — you get a premonition and manage to save your friends from a fatal bus crash. all of them die one by one and when you think its your turn, nothing happens. to you, at least. long story short, you come to realise death has another purpose for you to fulfil.

warnings — THIS IS AN IMMENSELY FUCKED UP FANFICTION. non con going into dub con, gore, blood, passing of loved ones, obsessiveness, possession, sexual themes, masturbation, paranormal activity, cursing, psychological mind fuck in general, death isn’t a physical manifestation, mentions of attempted suicide, mentions of self harm, bus crash, use of sex toys, death has he/him pronouns, spiritual sex¿, depression

a/n — first time writing anything sexual. i fr have no idea why i was watching final destination and my brain went ‘mm, death’. This fanfiction is mostly a psychological one. Death doesn’t speak, nor does he have a physical form.

Part I: The Premonition

The vision was an incision—precise, sterile, and irreversible. It wasn’t a nightmare, you were there. Nightmares are messy and unclear, hot things that come with teeth and sound. This was cold and you felt every moment, every emotion. A vision soaked in static and gravity. No monsters. No voice whispering warnings. Just inevitability. Something mathematical.

You knew before the bus flipped. You knew before you watched the driver’s head tilt ninety degrees too far to the left. You knew the sound the metal would make when it peeled back, the way your friend’s jaw would detach, the way fire would flicker under the hood of the oncoming truck before swallowing all of it.

You saw it before it happened. So you screamed.

They listened, eventually. Twenty-three people standing on the shoulder of a two-lane highway, half of them still holding Red Bulls and cheap headphones, staring at you like you’d grown teeth where your eyes should be. Seven minutes later, the bus became an inferno. The explosion took three street cameras to analyze. It made the news. You were a survivor. A hero.

Part II: The Pattern

The deaths didn’t begin loudly. That would have been easier to forgive. Your best friend, Jess was first. She had the sort of face that always looked surprised to be alive. That stopped being true the day her body was found. No water on the bathroom tiles. No impact bruises on the skull. Just a snap. The kind that doesn’t come from slipping, but from turning. Turning to look at something behind her. It was unnatural. Nothing in that bathroom could have caused her neck to snap so cleanly.

You visited the house. No one had touched anything yet. The room was clean. Sterile, almost. But there was a smell. Not rot. Not bleach. Roses.

The second was Max. Electrocuted. Burned from the inside out. His mother said he’d been playing music too loud again. You couldn’t hear her. You were staring at the song title. “You Are Mine.” It had repeated 147 times. It had looped itself even after the battery should’ve died. There were no roses in the room. But the screen of his phone had fractured. Not shattered—fractured. Hairline cracks, perfect and straight. Shaped like something you couldn’t recognise in your grief.

It kept going.

Part III: Stillness

It has been three weeks since the last death. Everyone else is gone. You’ve stopped opening the blinds. You can’t remember if the sun still moves across the floor. The plants in your kitchen are alive because they have learned to survive without you.

Your name was the last on the list. You checked it twenty-seven times. You scratched it into your wrist with the tip of a safety pin to make sure it stayed. But nothing happens. You wake up. You sleep, barely. You eat cereal without tasting it. No flickering lights. No pattern of footsteps in the hallway. No sound of breath when you hold yours just to check.

At first you tried to search in between the cracks of the vision. Hoped you could remember a part where you didn’t die or a part you remembered wrong or forgot. Then you accepted it and waited. Waited for the inevitable to happen, to take you out of your misery.

Then nothing happened and that was worse than dying.

You tried to kill yourself once. The gun didn’t fire. It clicked twice and the third time, the safety was on, though you remember checking it. You laughed for seventeen minutes. Then you stopped laughing. You haven’t tried again.

Like you are not allowed to die yet.

Part IV: The Romantic

The faucet drips in pairs. Two drops, pause, two more. Like breathing. Inhale, exhale, pause, inhale, exhale, pause. It stops each time you enter the room. Your furniture shifts itself a half-inch overnight. Your door never creaks, but your mirror fogs even when you don’t shower. You checked the pipes. You checked the seals. You unscrewed the bulbs and left them out. They still glow when you blink too long. Nothing moves in front of you. But everything rearranges.

You managed to gather enough will to go take a bath. The tub filled but the water wouldn’t go down the drain. You ripped the seal off with your bare fingers, your blood mixing with the water. Clogged. With rose petals. Not red ones, black ones. Ones that you never even owned. And when you took a single one into your hand, the black liquid started dripping down your hand, down your wrist. Diesel oil, like from the bus that was a curse in disguise of a blessing.

You don’t scream. That reaction burned itself out six deaths ago. What you feel now is quieter. Less human. Not fear. Not even grief. Just… a sharpening. Like the world has become too defined. Every edge now slices if you look too closely.

Part V: The Suitors

Why was it keeping you alive when you so desperately wanted to not be? There was a reason in your head, a passing thought. It was an experiment. You noticed every man that looked at you too long die, even if they’re not on ‘the list’.

His name was Julian. He was not important. He was an answer to a question you were afraid to ask directly: Will just everyone around me die instead of me?

He flirted over the counter at the pharmacy. Asked about your jacket. Said it reminded him of something French. You told him he didn’t look like he could spell "France." He laughed like it was a compliment.

You agreed to meet him. Not because you wanted to. But because you didn’t. That was the variable.

You chose a public place. A café with glass walls. You sat with your back to the room. You didn’t touch his hand. You didn’t even let your knee brush his under the table. You didn’t look at him for more than four seconds at a time. You kept your heart out of it.

It didn’t matter.

You excused yourself to the bathroom. Seven minutes later, when you returned, Julian’s face had been pressed clean through the sugar-glass tabletop. There were no screams. No witnesses saw it happen. His body was mangled from the glass, it was almost beyond recognition. But somehow his heart managed to stay in perfect condition, falling right into the bouquet of roses he gave you.

VI: The Courtship

You are being courted. Not with words. With consequence.

You find a poem carved into your bathroom mirror. It isn’t written in blood. It isn’t even legible at first. It only appears when the mirror fogs. The first stanza reads:

I have followed you through time not to take,
but to become the air between your thoughts.
You mistake silence for mercy. It is not.
It is longing.

You haven’t told anyone because there is no one left to tell. You’ve tried documenting it. Phone, camera, voice memo. Nothing records. The screen shows static. The files erase. Sometimes you play them back and hear your own voice repeating lines you don’t remember saying. One of them is, Please… don’t leave me empty tonight.

You don’t remember saying that.

VII: Repetition

Every man you meet dies.

One had a heart attack mid-sentence. You were at a museum. He said, You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever— and dropped. The statue beside him of the ancient Greek god Eros, god of love, fell on him. Buried him. Flattened his body completely.

Another was crushed by a piano falling through a skylight. You hadn’t touched him. You had only smiled. But you saw the look in his eyes before it happened. That shine. That beginning.

It’s the beginning Death punishes.

He knows the moment it starts. Not the touch. Not the kiss. The shift. The inward lean of your gaze. The way your breath slows when someone holds your attention too long.

You don’t think Death is jealous. Jealousy is petty.

This is ownership.

VIII: Consummation

Then it starts in sleep. Not a dream. You don’t dream anymore. This is something else. You are not lying in your bed; you are not even sure you have a body anymore. There is no weight, no edge to your shape. But there is pressure.

It begins at the back of your throat. A stillness that spreads inward, not outward. You are not breathing, but you are being filled.

Something is inside you. Not physically. There is no intrusion. No penetration. But there is a knowing. A widening. Like every part of your consciousness is being read, and rewritten.

You feel hands that aren’t hands, heat that doesn’t burn, but saturates. Your spine arches without your permission. Your jaw slackens. Your legs go taut. There is no touch, and yet every nerve is singing.

You try to speak. Your mouth moves, but no sound comes. There is no need. He already knows. He has always known.

Your thighs are wet.
You didn’t move.
You never moved.

But you are shaking now.

You feel a weight between your legs that doesn’t belong to gravity. A rhythm that doesn’t come from movement but from inevitability. There’s no thrust. There’s no friction. There’s just presence filling every silence in your body until your skin hums from the inside.

You come like a prayer. Silent. Shaking. No witness but the one who made you this way. When you wake, there are bruises. Not fingerprints. Not shaped by hands. They look more like your skin in those areas went grey, making your veins appear almost black.

Perfect, deep, cold. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. He was inside you already. You check the sheets. The blood between your thighs is fresh. But you feel no pain.


IX: The Second Time

It happens again two weeks later. Not in sleep. Not in the safety of dreams where reality can be dismissed like fog. You are awake.

It’s 3:38 a.m. You are staring at the ceiling. Counting the cracks in the plaster again because it’s better than counting how many people you’ve buried. The air is still. Heavy. A pressure behind your eyes, like something is watching from inside your skull.

The sheets are stiff with cold. But something changes. You hear a small sound in the corner of the room, like something fell. As you almost jump out of your skin, you look at your AC that’s suddenly blowing chilling air into the room. The temperature drops a few degrees too fast. The air thickens—so dense your breath catches in your throat. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a touch. Not yet.

More like… gravity. Centered at your pelvis.

You don’t move.
You can’t move.

Your fingers twitch once, like they’re trying to say something. But your arms feel pinned, not by weight, but by expectation. Like the moment right before a plane crashes. That dead hush. Everyone waiting for something they can’t see.

Then: heat.

Spreading between your legs like ink in water. Not from outside. From within. Slow at first. Intrusive. Humiliating. You try to close your thighs. They don’t listen. You try to scream. Your lips part, but the air won’t come.

There’s nothing on top of you. But you’re being taken. Not violently. That would be easier. No, this is… intimate. Obsessive. Each wave is patient. Calculated. Like he’s learning you in real-time, mapping your nerves like constellations. Touching places inside you that don’t physically exist. Places your own fingers could never reach.

Your legs begin to shake.
You try to pull away from the feeling.
But it’s already inside you.

And then it escalates.

Your head falls back. Not from pleasure. From shock. You feel a tongue—no, not a tongue, not anything living—drag across the softest part of your throat. Just once. Slowly. But there’s no one there. Your heart stutters, skips a beat, and never picks it back up.

You can feel your own body clenching against something you can’t name. You are crying. But you’re also moaning. You’re unsure where one ends and the other begins. The pleasure grows unbearable. Not because it hurts. But because it doesn’t. It feels perfect. It feels designed. Your hips arch into the nothing above you.

You didn’t even notice it was your own hand in-between your thighs. But when you did, you realise he’s making you do this to yourself. He’s puppeting your desire like a marionette. You’re not being fucked. You’re being performed.

The orgasm tears through you like a collapse, ecstatic and horrifying. You bite your tongue. There’s blood. But you keep going. You can’t stop. Not until he lets you.

And then it ends.

Not gradually. Not with a soft come-down. But with a snap, like a switch flipped in reverse. Suddenly you’re alone. Cold. Wet. Wrung out and empty in a way you’ve never been before. You vomit over the side of the bed. Nothing but bile. You look down. Between your thighs: blood again. This time both on your thighs and your fingers.

X: The Sequence

You moved after that. A new apartment. Less mirrors this time. You thought if you denied him symbols, no roses, no mirrors, no candles, he would lose interest. You should’ve known better. Death doesn’t like it when you mess with his plans.

It starts when your tea spills. You left it at a weird angle without noticing. A single drop beading over the edge like it chooses to fall. It hits the corner of the newspaper, the one that arrived this morning with no name and no headline. Just an address. Your address.

The tea seeps across the table. Capillary action, stretching toward the edge. Where it drips once onto the extension cord below. The outlet sparks. The lights flicker. Your phone vibrates across the counter. It hits the floor with a crack, sliding until it bumps your speaker. The speaker turns on. You didn’t charge it.

It must have damaged it in some way because it starts to rapidly skip songs from their chorus until it stops on one song. “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” by Jeff Buckley. But it’s slow and distorted, echoing through the apartment.

Your laptop turns on next. You didn’t touch it. It opens a browser window. Auto-played video. No image. Just audio. Breathing.

Yours.

Overlaid with another. Deeper. Slower. Syncing to yours until it overtakes it. Your heater clicks. A vent opens. Warm air hits your ankle. Rises slowly. Like fingers. Like breath. You stumble back. But your body’s already responding. Skin flushed. The warmth sharpens. Concentrates. Your pajama shorts stick to your thighs. Not from fear. From sweat.

You hear a drawer open behind you. You didn’t move. Inside, a vibrator. One you didn’t use ever since before that premonition that took over your life. Sleek. Black. The rose emblem etched into the base. A single button. Already blinking.

You step back. Your foot gets tangled in some cables you left out earlier, causing you to fall onto your knees in-front of the couch. You hiss as you hit the ground, trying to untangle your foot and turn off your laptop simultaneously.

The heat from the vent crawls between your thighs. Air becomes pressure. The kind you only feel when someone’s looking at you from across a crowded room and wants you undone. The audio on the laptop moans. It’s your voice. You haven’t made a sound. As the audio keeps going you recognise it to be the one you took with your ex boyfriend, but you don’t hear his moans in it, just yours.

You have tears in your eyes at this point, your skin feels like it’s on fire. Then, you reach for the vibrator. Not to stop it. To beg.

You sit back against the floor, legs open. The hum matches the sound in the room. It isn’t random, it’s calibrated. Designed for you. Frequencies that resonate deep. It touches you—no, you touch yourself, but it feels like him. He is the pattern. He is the sound.

Your back arches. Your lips part. You cry out, finally, but the sound gets eaten by the song that is still playing on the speaker. The video on your laptop skips. You’re watching yourself now. From an angle that doesn’t exist. From inside the room.

You should be terrified. But all you feel is climax pulling you apart with surgical grace.

There’s no voice. No face. But his presence is wrapped around every nerve. No stranger could know your body like this. No living thing could.

You come so hard you forget your name.
The video ends.
The speaker dies.

You lie there, chest heaving, the vibrator still humming against you like it’s trying to coax your soul out through your cunt. You don’t move. Can’t. Your muscles feel like wet thread.

Then—click.

Not from the oven. Not from the walls. From the laptop. The screen flickers. White noise. Then video. Not porn. Not surveillance. Something worse.

Your best friend, Jess’ face appears. The one you took before that trip almost a year ago. She’s laughing, so are you in the video. It was a stupid video, taken in the moment. The camera pans to a white purse stained with red lipstick. “Now which one of us is the culprit?” you say through giggles. Jess laughs, “Im telling it was yours!”

Then it cuts.

You and your ex are on the next video. The one who went through the windshield. You’re singing in the car. He’s tapping the steering wheel. “My whole existence is flawed, you get me closer to God—“

Then cut again.

Your cousin. The one who drowned. She’s brushing her hair in the mirror. Humming. The same melody you heard echoing in your head for weeks after her death. You accidentally drop something in the video and she jumps, “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Cut again.

You sit up, too fast. The room tilts.

The laptop cycles through them. One by one. Not their deaths, just before. Clips of them alive. Intimate, private.

Next video is Max, mad about Jess dropping his guitar. “Jess, you ruined it!”— cut. Then it’s you filming a video of yourself walking through your family home and seeing a snack you really like. You take it in the video while saying, “Oo, mine, thank you very much—“ then the videos start circling. Again and again, shorter and shorter until each clip is overlaid with a single word. No context. Just fragments:

“Yours.”
“Closer.”
“Nearly.”
“Ruined.”
“Mine.”

The final clip loads. It’s you. Sleeping. Mouth parted. One hand between your thighs. But the angle—it’s from the ceiling. You don’t have a camera there. You don’t remember touching yourself that night. But you’re watching it happen. The way your hips twitch. The way you whimper.

It keeps playing.

“What the fuck?” you nearly whimper out. You shouldn’t be surprised after the paranormal shit you have been living through for months, but it feels weird to see it.

Your voice comes through the speaker—soft, like it’s buried under a pillow. “Please… not again.” The video keeps playing. You press pause. It doesn’t stop. You hit the keyboard. The screen flickers—just once—and your own eyes on the video open.

Not like sleepwalking. Not like waking. Like looking right at you. And your voice—through the speaker now, soft, stretched too long, like it’s been slowed down on tape:

“Please… don’t leave me empty tonight.”

You step back, hand over your mouth. That’s not what you said. You remember what you said. Didn’t you? The clip cuts abruptly. Sequence Interrupted. Rerouting.

You freeze. The air behind you doesn’t move, but you feel it, an intelligence that isn’t breathing down your neck, but inside your lungs. Your mind connects the words. Sequence interrupted. The death sequence, the same one you interrupted—the final video;

A spreadsheet.

Names.

Times.

Methods.

Your friends. Their deaths.

Your name at the top.

But instead of a timestamp, it says:

Outcome: Claimed.

Not “survived.” Not “deceased.” Claimed.

And then you understand.

You didn’t cheat Death. You were taken out of the system. You didn’t die but you’re not living either. Your life wasn’t taken physically, it was taken in every other sense.

Not spared. Stolen.

You laugh through your tears, you feel dizzy. Your hand goes to tug on your own hair, but then—

Click. The vibrator turns on again. And you give in, because you know your life isn’t your own anymore.

It’s his.