#The Sinking City review

[dumbfinntales]

After my ARPG addiction, I decided to finally try out a game that has been sitting in my library for over a year now, and a game which development I followed until release. The Sinking City. A very flawed game, but currently the closest one to a lovecraftian themed game that I enjoy. Strange cults, odd happenings, even weirder creatures and madness are a plenty in the sunken city of Oakmont.

I've always wanted a cosmic horror game where you explore a dilapidated town, or a fishing town of some kind with strange creatures and survival horror elements. The Sinking City seems to deliver this on the surface and succeeds somewhat, but also fails in many aspects. This game is a bit of a janky unpolished gem, and you'll either ignore its flaws and enjoy it for what it is, or absolutely hate it. I happened to enjoy myself enough, but I don't see myself playing this again any time soon.

If there's one thing this game gets right it's the right inspiration and atmosphere. The game is comically lovecraftian making it almost stereotypical, but it works. You got a private detective who's plagued by visions who then travels to a strange American town where even stranger things are happening. You got mad cults worshiping maddening horrors and you get to explore ancient temples dedicated to unknown gods, all that good stuff. The city of Oakmont is pretty in the dilapidated, water damaged and monster infested way and is a joy to traverse and explore.

The quests, or cases as they're called in this game are pretty fun and well thought out. You are a private detective after all so you go around looking for clues, finding missing people and solving mysteries. The game doesn't hold your hand at all and you have to figure out your own way. Sometimes I had to look up what to do because there are some confusing and cryptic things in the game. Especially when you have to go research at a library, or the archives of a newspaper.

The combat isn't much to write home about. It's serviceable. You got several different types of guns that you acquire as you go through the main cases and you can thrown grenades and plop down some traps. Monster variety is disappointingly low though, and you'll be fighting the same 5 monsters throughout the entire game. There are a couple rudimentary boss fights there to spice things up, but the questing and mystery solving is obviously the games main draw.

But the game does fail in some departments and has some strange design decisions. For one, at the start of the game they state that normal money has lost its use in Oakmont, so they deal in bullets. You don't actually get to buy anything as there are no merchants in the game. The oddest thing of all, there's a limit to how many bullets you can carry. The game might seem like you have to save your resources, but you'll never run out of bullets because the game showers you with crafting materials. You also get bullets as a reward from cases, but if you're at max capacity you actually get no rewards at all from a case, which is such a weird decision.

The city of Oakmont is very limited. Despite being a city there are only a few points of interest and very few buildings can actually be entered. Most buildings are static and most doors are locked. You usually have to run large distances to get to anything interesting, and chasing after clues in a case can lead to lengthy runs around the town. There are a lot of braindead NPC's around as well, who don't really serve a purpose other than keep repeatedly walking into lamp post or cower on top a trash can.

You'll also notice a lot of repeating assets and layout. Sometimes I'd walk into a random building and I'd wonder to myself if I've been there before. But I feel like this can be forgiven because the studio that made this game is far from a triple A company and it's actually quite amazing what they achieved by themselves. Despite the repeating assets Oakmont is a very pretty city.

I also dislike how the game calls itself "survival horror". I already talked about the bullets, but you really don't even have to worry about resources. Maybe at the start of the game you feel like every bullet counts, but not far into the game you have more than enough. The madness mechanic was really spooky at the start though, and I feel like our poor detective character starts to lose his marbles a little too easily. True to Lovecraft I guess, but this makes the madness mechanic a little tedious at times. There are a couple genuinely good spooks in the game that caught me off guard, so it does somewhat keep the horror elements going.

So, the Sinking City is a bit of a divisive game. It succeeds in ways that I enjoy, but also fails in some annoying ways. It is obvious though that the developers seemed to care about this game and tried their hardest to make a game true to cosmic horror to the best of their abilities. If you're a lovecraft nut, I do recommend the game. Maybe get it on a sale and remember to play on a gray rainy autumn evening.

[hardcore-gaming-101]

The Sinking City

So, if you play a lot of PC games and ever gotten an interest in playing The Sinking City, you may be extremely confused. This is understandable. The story goes that Frogwares, after leaving a deal with Focus Home Interactive to make a Call of Cthulhu game, decided to work on something original with the Lovecraft lore, and got a new distributor for the job. Bigben Interactive, now known as Nacon, helped with funding the game and distributing it, but had no control over the IP itself.

Read more...

[first-impressions-gaming]

The Sinking City

Developed & Published by Frogwares

Release Date 2019 (depending on platform)

Tested on Xbox Series X

MSRP 39,99 USD

Journeying into the unknown, leaving everything you know and you are familiar with behind, a strange and stranger land sucks you in, and you’re there to solve the ongoing mystery and everything stemmed from it. Good luck, private investigator.

The Sinking City opens as you come ashore on Oakmont, the town that is sinking with each passing day and experience unusual flooding coupled with unbelievable mysteries where people experience hysteria and visions. That’s hell of a (un)welcoming to you, as the player. Right there, you know you’re stepping into a town where you are always called as “newcomer”, and you cannot not feel like an outcast. We receive a letter from J. van der Berg, just going through what we should expect from Oakmont and such. The main reason our protagonist, Charles Reed, decides to visit Oakmont is that like many people in Oakmont he is afflicted with hysteria as well and maybe he can find a remedy for his illness.

We land on Oakmont, we are barely on the shore and we see that the police aren't allowing anybody going in or out from the port. Shortly we learn that the most-influential person’s, Mr. Throgmorton, son is missing and he is standing in front of the building with police where the son was last seen before missing. We explain ourselves why we came to Oakmont and he says he could help us if we solve this case of his missing son. So, right off the bat, this’s our first case to show off our excellent private investigator skills and get to learn case-related abilities like a tutorial.

As a detective, from your deductions and the evidence you find, you are to make the final decision about a case, such as the first one concerning Albert Throgmorton’s murder. Upon collecting all the evidence and matching clues, you arrive to your verdict, did Lewis murder Albert on purpose with full awareness and knowledge or was he afflicted and mentally incapacitated?

As for this case, you can watch step-by-step how you progress and make your decision:

First, you arrive the location where the incident took place, you collect evidence in the vicinity and the game will signal you that you should switch to Mind Palace so you can go back in time and watch the event unfold:

Second, after checking every step, you are to decide which event happened in what order, by clicking on them you give them a number as 1, 2 or 3, then you can progress further:

Third, then we follow the path that leads us to the suspect, Lewis in this case, and we interact and talk with him about what happened and where Albert Throgmorton is. He gives us ambiguous answers, stating that he does not remember that well and even if he’s dead he did not do anything knowingly. We locate Albert Throgmorton’s corpse nearby, hanged and killed. What’s our verdict then?

You don’t interact with NPCs you come across on streets even though the streets are filled with them. The only interaction you have with them, or I should put it as the only reaction you receive from them is, “what you doing?, “watch where you going” sort of generic feedback when you bump into them. You cannot even interact with the NPC who is selling papers, it’d be a nice touch if the character gives you a summary of what has taken place or something similar, for example a short of summary of the town, flood. The town we’re in may seem massive at first but once you get the hang of it, each district and street will appear almost identical to you except few key locations. There isn’t any landmarks and NPCs don’t add any value to locations. For example, each time I walk by one particular street I witness two characters arguing and one of them shoots the other one on exactly same location. This breaks the believability aspect for me, this action isn’t something to happen over and over again on the same location with same scenario. You can find the clip below:

Since a quarter of the town is flooded, you are to travel with boats in some districts:

For some reason, in mid-dialogue camera angle or zoom changes and this causes characters’ faces not fitting in the screen, this’s a weird issue and I encountered it frequently:

At the end of my 3-hour gametime, there was an climactic cutscene which is followed by totally empty reaction from the protagonist, after the scene, Charles Reed wakes up in his room as he does every morning and he does not react to what happened, how can he not say anything to himself after these revelations and intrigue?:

Despite the shortcomings and some “meh” moments, The Sinking City is still a worthy detective game, the game makes up for what is missing in other aspects and presents an enjoyable walkthrough to the player.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Conspiratorialism as a material phenomenon

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I think it behooves us to be a little skeptical of stories about AI driving people to believe wrong things and commit ugly actions. Not that I like the AI slop that is filling up our social media, but when we look at the ways that AI is harming us, slop is pretty low on the list.

The real AI harms come from the actual things that AI companies sell AI to do. There's the AI gun-detector gadgets that the credulous Mayor Eric Adams put in NYC subways, which led to 2,749 invasive searches and turned up zero guns:

https://www.cbsnews.com/newyork/news/nycs-subway-weapons-detector-pilot-program-ends/

Any time AI is used to predict crime – predictive policing, bail determinations, Child Protective Services red flags – they magnify the biases already present in these systems, and, even worse, they give this bias the veneer of scientific neutrality. This process is called "empiricism-washing," and you know you're experiencing it when you hear some variation on "it's just math, math can't be racist":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/23/cryptocidal-maniacs/#phrenology

When AI is used to replace customer service representatives, it systematically defrauds customers, while providing an "accountability sink" that allows the company to disclaim responsibility for the thefts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/23/maximal-plausibility/#reverse-centaurs

When AI is used to perform high-velocity "decision support" that is supposed to inform a "human in the loop," it quickly overwhelms its human overseer, who takes on the role of "moral crumple zone," pressing the "OK" button as fast as they can. This is bad enough when the sacrificial victim is a human overseeing, say, proctoring software that accuses remote students of cheating on their tests:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/16/unauthorized-paper/#cheating-anticheat

But it's potentially lethal when the AI is a transcription engine that doctors have to use to feed notes to a data-hungry electronic health record system that is optimized to commit health insurance fraud by seeking out pretenses to "upcode" a patient's treatment. Those AIs are prone to inventing things the doctor never said, inserting them into the record that the doctor is supposed to review, but remember, the only reason the AI is there at all is that the doctor is being asked to do so much paperwork that they don't have time to treat their patients:

https://apnews.com/article/ai-artificial-intelligence-health-business-90020cdf5fa16c79ca2e5b6c4c9bbb14

My point is that "worrying about AI" is a zero-sum game. When we train our fire on the stuff that isn't important to the AI stock swindlers' business-plans (like creating AI slop), we should remember that the AI companies could halt all of that activity and not lose a dime in revenue. By contrast, when we focus on AI applications that do the most direct harm – policing, health, security, customer service – we also focus on the AI applications that make the most money and drive the most investment.

AI hasn't attracted hundreds of billions in investment capital because investors love AI slop. All the money pouring into the system – from investors, from customers, from easily gulled big-city mayors – is chasing things that AI is objectively very bad at and those things also cause much more harm than AI slop. If you want to be a good AI critic, you should devote the majority of your focus to these applications. Sure, they're not as visually arresting, but discrediting them is financially arresting, and that's what really matters.

All that said: AI slop is real, there is a lot of it, and just because it doesn't warrant priority over the stuff AI companies actually sell, it still has cultural significance and is worth considering.

AI slop has turned Facebook into an anaerobic lagoon of botshit, just the laziest, grossest engagement bait, much of it the product of rise-and-grind spammers who avidly consume get rich quick "courses" and then churn out a torrent of "shrimp Jesus" and fake chainsaw sculptures:

https://www.404media.co/email/1cdf7620-2e2f-4450-9cd9-e041f4f0c27f/

For poor engagement farmers in the global south chasing the fractional pennies that Facebook shells out for successful clickbait, the actual content of the slop is beside the point. These spammers aren't necessarily tuned into the psyche of the wealthy-world Facebook users who represent Meta's top monetization subjects. They're just trying everything and doubling down on anything that moves the needle, A/B splitting their way into weird, hyper-optimized, grotesque crap:

https://www.404media.co/facebook-is-being-overrun-with-stolen-ai-generated-images-that-people-think-are-real/

In other words, Facebook's AI spammers are laying out a banquet of arbitrary possibilities, like the letters on a Ouija board, and the Facebook users' clicks and engagement are a collective ideomotor response, moving the algorithm's planchette to the options that tug hardest at our collective delights (or, more often, disgusts).

So, rather than thinking of AI spammers as creating the ideological and aesthetic trends that drive millions of confused Facebook users into condemning, praising, and arguing about surreal botshit, it's more true to say that spammers are discovering these trends within their subjects' collective yearnings and terrors, and then refining them by exploring endlessly ramified variations in search of unsuspected niches.

(If you know anything about AI, this may remind you of something: a Generative Adversarial Network, in which one bot creates variations on a theme, and another bot ranks how closely the variations approach some ideal. In this case, the spammers are the generators and the Facebook users they evince reactions from are the discriminators)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generative_adversarial_network

I got to thinking about this today while reading User Mag, Taylor Lorenz's superb newsletter, and her reporting on a new AI slop trend, "My neighbor’s ridiculous reason for egging my car":

https://www.usermag.co/p/my-neighbors-ridiculous-reason-for

The "egging my car" slop consists of endless variations on a story in which the poster (generally a figure of sympathy, canonically a single mother of newborn twins) complains that her awful neighbor threw dozens of eggs at her car to punish her for parking in a way that blocked his elaborate Hallowe'en display. The text is accompanied by an AI-generated image showing a modest family car that has been absolutely plastered with broken eggs, dozens upon dozens of them.

According to Lorenz, variations on this slop are topping very large Facebook discussion forums totalling millions of users, like "Movie Character…,USA Story, Volleyball Women, Top Trends, Love Style, and God Bless." These posts link to SEO sites laden with programmatic advertising.

The funnel goes:

i. Create outrage and hence broad reach;

ii, A small percentage of those who see the post will click through to the SEO site;

iii. A small fraction of those users will click a low-quality ad;

iv. The ad will pay homeopathic sub-pennies to the spammer.

The revenue per user on this kind of scam is next to nothing, so it only works if it can get very broad reach, which is why the spam is so designed for engagement maximization. The more discussion a post generates, the more users Facebook recommends it to.

These are very effective engagement bait. Almost all AI slop gets some free engagement in the form of arguments between users who don't know they're commenting an AI scam and people hectoring them for falling for the scam. This is like the free square in the middle of a bingo card.

Beyond that, there's multivalent outrage: some users are furious about food wastage; others about the poor, victimized "mother" (some users are furious about both). Not only do users get to voice their fury at both of these imaginary sins, they can also argue with one another about whether, say, food wastage even matters when compared to the petty-minded aggression of the "perpetrator." These discussions also offer lots of opportunity for violent fantasies about the bad guy getting a comeuppance, offers to travel to the imaginary AI-generated suburb to dole out a beating, etc. All in all, the spammers behind this tedious fiction have really figured out how to rope in all kinds of users' attention.

Of course, the spammers don't get much from this. There isn't such a thing as an "attention economy." You can't use attention as a unit of account, a medium of exchange or a store of value. Attention – like everything else that you can't build an economy upon, such as cryptocurrency – must be converted to money before it has economic significance. Hence that tooth-achingly trite high-tech neologism, "monetization."

The monetization of attention is very poor, but AI is heavily subsidized or even free (for now), so the largest venture capital and private equity funds in the world are spending billions in public pension money and rich peoples' savings into CO2 plumes, GPUs, and botshit so that a bunch of hustle-culture weirdos in the Pacific Rim can make a few dollars by tricking people into clicking through engagement bait slop – twice.

The slop isn't the point of this, but the slop does have the useful function of making the collective ideomotor response visible and thus providing a peek into our hopes and fears. What does the "egging my car" slop say about the things that we're thinking about?

Lorenz cites Jamie Cohen, a media scholar at CUNY Queens, who points out that subtext of this slop is "fear and distrust in people about their neighbors." Cohen predicts that "the next trend, is going to be stranger and more violent.”

This feels right to me. The corollary of mistrusting your neighbors, of course, is trusting only yourself and your family. Or, as Margaret Thatcher liked to say, "There is no such thing as society. There are individual men and women and there are families."

We are living in the tail end of a 40 year experiment in structuring our world as though "there is no such thing as society." We've gutted our welfare net, shut down or privatized public services, all but abolished solidaristic institutions like unions.

This isn't mere aesthetics: an atomized society is far more hospitable to extreme wealth inequality than one in which we are all in it together. When your power comes from being a "wise consumer" who "votes with your wallet," then all you can do about the climate emergency is buy a different kind of car – you can't build the public transit system that will make cars obsolete.

When you "vote with your wallet" all you can do about animal cruelty and habitat loss is eat less meat. When you "vote with your wallet" all you can do about high drug prices is "shop around for a bargain." When you vote with your wallet, all you can do when your bank forecloses on your home is "choose your next lender more carefully."

Most importantly, when you vote with your wallet, you cast a ballot in an election that the people with the thickest wallets always win. No wonder those people have spent so long teaching us that we can't trust our neighbors, that there is no such thing as society, that we can't have nice things. That there is no alternative.

The commercial surveillance industry really wants you to believe that they're good at convincing people of things, because that's a good way to sell advertising. But claims of mind-control are pretty goddamned improbable – everyone who ever claimed to have managed the trick was lying, from Rasputin to MK-ULTRA:

https://pluralistic.net/HowToDestroySurveillanceCapitalism

Rather than seeing these platforms as convincing people of things, we should understand them as discovering and reinforcing the ideology that people have been driven to by material conditions. Platforms like Facebook show us to one another, let us form groups that can imperfectly fill in for the solidarity we're desperate for after 40 years of "no such thing as society."

The most interesting thing about "egging my car" slop is that it reveals that so many of us are convinced of two contradictory things: first, that everyone else is a monster who will turn on you for the pettiest of reasons; and second, that we're all the kind of people who would stick up for the victims of those monsters.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/29/hobbesian-slop/#cui-bono

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[incorrectbatfam]

Wayne Tower yelp reviews pls (wrong answers ofc)

★★★☆☆ Disappointed but not surprised

Was invited to the Wayne Gala held at the Tower this year to accommodate special guests from the Justice League. Was photographed by reporter Clark Kent. Wanted to meet Superman but he didn't show up. Food and atmosphere was good. Got told off for swinging from the chandelier. Why have a chandelier if not for swinging?

★☆☆☆☆ Not even gonna dignify it with a title

I'd give zero stars if I could. The CEO is a massive fucking asshole. He's full of nothing but smooth-brained takes. He claims he'll be there when you need him but never shows up. And when you RIGHTFULLY resent him, he'll turn around and pretend YOU are the bad guy. That isn't even touching on his AUDACITY to replace you so soon after you leave. You think you know this man, you think you've grown to trust him, and then he goes and stabs you in the back. Believe me when I say RUN. Get as FAR away from this company and that bastard Bruce Wayne as you possibly can.

★★☆☆☆ SOS

I work here. Too many emails. Half the execs are Boomers who can't export a PDF. The break room is out of coffee. My dad won't stop visiting the office. When will the nightmare end???

★★★★☆ Imperfect but respectable

I had the opportunity to visit Wayne Tower on Bring Your Child To Work Day. The building is up to code and I was able to view all the health code certifications. I admire that Wayne Enterprises takes care of its employees by allowing ample vacation time, in-house daycare, and well-maintained recreation spaces. The cafeteria did not have as many vegetarian options as I would have preferred, but I have been informed that they operate on a rotating menu, so I shall revisit again next week and possibly amend my review. I would leave five stars but I ran into Tim Drake on the way out and that brought the whole experience down a notch.

★☆☆☆☆ No Chipotle

Was told there was a Chipotle here. Did not find Chipotle.

★★★☆☆ Badge entry didn't work

I'm on the night shift at the company's call center. One time I was already running late but for some reason I couldn't badge in. The janitor wouldn't let me through even though I had proof I was supposed to be here. Had to escalate to the CEO. Still better than working the Batburger drive-thru though.

★★★★★ Hi Dad

Hi Dad.

★★★★☆ Good but...

I love the bathrooms. They're easy to find and very accessible for a wheelchair user like myself. There's plenty of space for me to navigate and the products are top-notch, especially the hot towels. The toaster oven under the sink also doesn't make sense, but then again, my lockscreen is Nightwing so I can't judge.

★★☆☆☆ No cats allowed

I got written permission from the CEO himself to bring my cat to the office, but the doorman turned me away. Next time, there should be better communication between the employees.

★★★★☆ Rooftop makes for good date

I brought my girlfriend up here for our anniversary date. The building has a beautiful view of the city and the restaurant was great. The bread was a little dry, but nothing that a little butter couldn't fix. Unfortunately, she's an on-call detective and we had to cut our evening short, but that's not the staff's fault.

★☆☆☆☆ Got called Bri'ish

Someone called me Bri'ish.

[mariacallous]

“There are only so many books on Ukraine we can review each month,” an editor from a major British newspaper tells me at one of the country’s largest literary festivals. He looks a bit uncomfortable, almost apologetic. He wants me to understand that if it were up to him, he’d review a book on Ukraine every day, but that’s just not how the industry works.

Since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion, I’ve had a glimpse into how several industries work: Publishing, journalism, and the broader world of culture, including galleries and museums. Even before the big war, I knew more than I wanted to about how academia works (or rather doesn’t) when it comes to Ukraine. A common thread among all these fields is the limited attention they allocate to countries that do not occupy a place among the traditional big players of imperial politics.

Cultural imperialism lives on, even if its carriers often proclaim anti-colonial slogans. It thrives in gate-keeping, with editors and academics mistrusting voices that don’t sound like those higher up the ladder, while platforming those who have habitually been accepted as authoritative. “We’ve done Ukraine already” is a frequent response whenever you pitch an idea, text, or public event centering the country.

The editor who can’t keep publishing reviews of Ukraine-related books walks away, and I pick up a copy of one of the UK’s most prominent literary magazines to see their book recommendations. Out of a handful of reviews, three are on recent books about Russia. It seems like the space afforded to Russia remains unlimited. I close the publication to keep my blood pressure down.

Keeping my blood pressure down, however, is challenging. When my social media feeds aren’t advertising another production of Uncle Vanya, they’re urging me to splash out on opera tickets for Eugene Onegin. What happened to the dreaded “cancelling” of Russian culture? The Russia section in most bookshops I visit in the UK is growing daily with everything from yet another translation of Dostoevsky to accounts of opposition figures killed or imprisoned by the Kremlin.

The international media focus on the August 2024 release of Russian political prisoners was yet another example of how the more things change, the more they stay the same. While these released prisoners were provided with a global media platform to call for an end to “unfair” sanctions on “ordinary Russians,” there was no mention of the thousands of Ukrainian civilians who continue to languish in Russian jails.

The ongoing international emphasis on all things Russian goes hand in hand with a reluctance to transform growing interest in Ukraine into meaningful structural changes in how the country is perceived, reported on, and understood. Although there has been some improvement in knowledge about Ukraine since 2022, the move is essentially from having no understanding to having a superficial grasp.

Each time I read a piece on Ukraine by someone not well-versed in the country’s history and politics, my heart sinks. The chances are it will recycle historical cliches, repeat Kremlin propaganda about Russophone Ukrainians, or generalize about regional differences. And to add insult to injury, such articles also often misspell at least one family or place name, using outdated Russian transliterations. A quick Google search or a message to an actual Ukrainian could prevent these errors and save the author from looking foolish. Yet aiding this kind of colonial complacency seems to bother neither the authors nor the editors involved.

I often wonder what would happen if I wrote a piece on British or US politics and misspelt the names of historical figures, towns, and cities. How likely would I be to get it published? And yet the same standards do not apply when it comes to writing about countries that have not been granted priority status in our mental hierarchies of the world. We can misspell them all we like; no one will notice anyway. Apart from the people from those countries, of course. And when an exasperated Ukrainian writes to complain, I can almost see the editors rolling their eyes and thinking, “What does this perpetually frustrated nation want now? We’ve done Ukraine. Why are they never satisfied?”

It is not enough to simply “do Ukraine” by reviewing one book on the war, especially if it’s by a Western journalist rather than a Ukraine-based author. It’s not enough to host one exhibition, particularly if it is by an artist or photographer who only spent a few weeks in the country. Quickly putting together a panel on Russia’s war in response to a major development at the front and adding a sole Ukrainian voice at the last minute doesn’t cut it either. This box-ticking approach is unhelpful and insulting.

It is important to acknowledge that some Western media outlets have significantly enhanced their coverage of Ukraine over the past two and a half years. They have typically done so by dedicating time and resources to having in-house experts who have either reported from Ukraine for many years, or who are committed to deepening their knowledge enough to produce high-quality analysis. However, many of these outlets still seem compelled to provide platforms for individuals entirely unqualified to analyse the region. Surely this isn’t what balance means?

Since February 2022, more than 100 Ukrainian cultural figures have been killed in the war. According to the Ukrainian Ministry of Culture, by May 2024, over 2,000 cultural institutions had been damaged or destroyed. This includes 711 libraries, 116 museums and galleries, and 37 theatres, cinemas, and concert halls. In May 2024, Russia bombed Factor Druk, the country’s biggest printing house.

When I attended this year’s Kyiv Book Arsenal, Ukraine’s largest literary festival, each panel began with a minute of silence to honor the memory of colleagues killed in the war. All this is in addition to mounting military losses, many of whom are yesterday’s civilians, including journalists and creatives who have either volunteered or been drafted into the army. This is the current state of the Ukrainian creative industry.

To save time for Western editors, publishers, and curators, let me clarify what all of us perpetually frustrated Ukrainians want. We would appreciate it if they turned to actual Ukraine specialists when working on Ukraine-related themes. Not those who suddenly pivoted from specializing in Russia, or who feel entitled to speak authoritatively because they discovered a distant Ukrainian ancestor, or those who have only recently shown interest in Ukraine due to business opportunities in the country’s reconstruction. We would be grateful if they took the time to seek out experts who have been studying Ukraine long before it became fashionable, who understand the country in all its complexity, and who care enough to offer Ukrainians the basic dignity of having their names spelt correctly.

I like to fantasise about a time when editors of top Western periodicals will choose to review books on Ukraine not simply because the country is at war and they feel obliged to cover it now and again, but because these books offer vital insights into democracy, the fight for freedom, or the importance of maintaining unity and a sense of humor in times of crisis. I hope for a day when galleries will host exhibitions of Ukrainian art, not just because it was rescued from a war zone, but because the artists involved provide fresh perspectives on the world.

I also dream that we, the perpetually frustrated Ukraine specialists, will eventually be able to focus on our own scholarship and creativity rather than correcting the mistakes and misleading takes of others. This will happen when cultural institutions, publishing houses, universities, and newspapers acquire in-house experts whose knowledge of Ukraine and the wider region extends beyond Russia.

Dr Olesya Khromeychuk is a historian and writer. She is the author of The Death of a Soldier Told by His Sister (2022). Khromeychuk has written for The New York Times, The New York Review of Books, The Guardian, Der Spiegel, Prospect, and The New Statesman, and has delivered a TED talk on What the World Can Learn From Ukraine’s Fight for Democracy. She has taught the history of East-Central Europe at several British universities and is currently the Director of the Ukrainian Institute London.

[ghostofhyuck]

NCT Dream and 7 days with them.

Mark Lee ; Sunday church and brunch date

Sundays with Mark meant that it is the only time that he can live up to his faith. Sure, you're not really of that religious person but you're willing for your boyfriend. You two visit the nearest church around your place and would dedicate a small portion of your morning to attend it. You admire your boyfriend's dedication and faith so you just sit there and try to sink in what the priest's preaches. After church, you two would go out to have a brunch date! It'll compose of pastries and light breakfast while you two slowly sink in the cozy Sunday morning ambiance.

Huang Renjun ; Lazy Monday mornings

Monday mornings are the most dreadful time of the week. It wouldn't help either if your boyfriend is already whining that he's sleepy despite sleeping early that night. You have to drag him out of the bed because he's been pestering you with "five more minutes" every time you wake him up. When you succeeded with waking Renjun up, he'll be clinging to you like a koala bear as you drag him towards that the dining room where you prepared a heavy breakfast for him so that he can be fully-awake. <3

Lee Jeno ; Tuesday cinema promos

Tuesdays is when cinemas at your mall have promos. It can be the time where you drag Jeno to watch a movie with him. He's not really a huge fan of movies but hey, he can't complain when there's a promo. He'll be the type to pick the most random time slot like 10 am or 2:30 in the afternoon because the movie house is usually not crowded (especially on a Tuesday.) you two will watch the movie in silence, probably munch on the promo snacks you two bought and after the movie, you two would go eat inside the mall, reviewing the movie and whether or not the money was worth it. 

Lee Donghyuck ; Vacant Wednesdays

Wednesdays with Haechan can be a weird occurrence. It's that type of day where you two don't know what to do, stucked in the middle of week and pondering whether you two should do something productive or not. Some Wednesday, you two would go out and probably do a small shopping at the mall because you two want to buy out of impulse. Some Wednesday, you two are just in your apartment. Maybe sleeping the whole day away or doing a random deep cleaning as early as eight in the morning. 

Na Jaemin ; Happy Drunk Thursday

Thursdays with Jaemin meant Happy T! You two don't have any classes every Friday, so you two have planned to get drunk on a Thursday night. You two would dress up, do a pre-game at your place with a few bottles of beer or maybe a small bottle of vodka, then go straight to a club where you two dance the night away. Tons of people would either: hit up on you or Jaemin especially when one leaves the other to go the rest room, that's why don't be surprise if Jaemin has his arms around your waist the whole night. Maybe steals a kiss on you or two while giggling tipsily. 

Zhong Chenle ; Friday night-out

Fridays are the best especially when you have Chenle. You two would always find a way to make your Friday night the life of a party. If not going out to drink, Chenle would be the type to drag you to a karaoke bar just to sing your lungs out. Of course there will be drinks but singing >>> anything else. Friday nights are always an adrenaline for you two, one time, you two even rented an electric scooter and drove it around the empty streets of the city at an ungodly hour of 2 am. 

Park Jisung ; Saturday morning walks at the beach

Despite being a rest day, you and Jisung would try to be productive even though Saturdays can be so boring. Jisung would drag you out at five in the morning when the sun is barely out and it's a bit chilly. He'll drive you two at the local beach where a lengthy baywalk can be located. For once, Jisung would always tell you that you two should try to be fit by walking or maybe jogging at the beach. So walking it is. It'll be peaceful walk, with you two holding hands, as you two talk quietly while admiring the beach while the sun slowly rises.

[lovelytsunoda]

purple haze // charles leclerc

summary: writing a novel is a long an arduous process. luckily for y/n, she has a very supportive partner in crime, and when it all works out, he's the only person she would want by her side.

pairing: charles leclerc x author reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of deadlines, book referenced is a good girls guide to murder by holly jackson. gets a lil steamy towards the middle but nothing comes of it. still not sure how i feel about this one, but i havent written for charles in forever and i got an idea i really liked but i don't know if it worked out when i put it on paper.

by the time y/n closed her laptop, she felt like her fingers were going to fall off. she leaned back in her desk chair, gutted to find that the monaco cityscape outside her living room window was now pitch black, as might had fallen on the city.

her first book had been a red-wine and oasis fuelled fever dream, the last three chapters being written to ‘don’t look back in anger’. and now, the final edits were done.

“I’m so proud of you, mon tresor.” charles gushed, bringing her another glass of wine.

“the last three years are finally paying off. a good girls guide to murder is done, and the world is ready to meet pippa and ravi.” she grinned, clinking her glass against her boyfriends.

she had poured three years of her life into that book, and Charles had been by her side for all of it. through numerous rejections, edits and late night idea-vomit, nobody was prouder than charles was so see it work out for her.

and now he knew she needed a break.

taking her hand in his, he gently dragged her out of the desk chair and towards the couch, placing their wineglasses on the coffee table as he urged y/n to sit on the ground between his legs.

his hands were warm as he began to massage her shoulders, attempting to release the tension caused by the last round of edits, which she had worked on almost from sunup to sundown.

“there’s still so much to do.” she whined, tilting her head back to look up at her lover. “now there’s arcs and extra promotions and finding advance reviewers and-“

charles cut her off with a kiss. “none of that right now. right now, you and me are going to finish this bottle of wine and watch something pointless on tv.”

smiling to herself, y/n got up from the floor and moved to the leather couch, slipping seamlessly into charles' lap and nestling against his chest. his body was warm, and his sweater soft. even if his cologne was a little bit too strong, he made her feel safe. treasured.

"that sounds perfect." she hummed, gently turning his face so she could kiss him. "thank you for supporting me."

"always, my love." charles smiled before kissing her again.

SIX MONTHS LATER

it was half past five in the morning when the phone rang. charles could sleep through just about anything, but it was the vibrations of the phone against her side table that woke y/n.

she looked over at her sleeping lover, pressing a gentle kiss to the smooth skin on his shoulder blades before slipping out of bed and creeping into the hallway to answer a call from her agent, cecelia.

"cece, its five in the morning. couldn't this have waited?"

ceclia cleared her throat. "i've just heard from the american office. the preliminary numbers for the new york times list are in."

"fuck. how did we do?" she closed her eyes, holding up her crossed fingers and praying to every god she wasn't sure she believed in.

and when cecelia spoke again, she almost dropped her phone.

"okay. thank you for letting me know, cece."

she slipped back into the bedroom, bare, dry feet sinking into the plush carpet at the end of the bed before she sat down at the end of the bed, gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

"mon amour." charles rasped, exhaustion in his voice as he rolled over onto his back. "what's wrong?"

"i just got a call from cecelia." she started, trying not to let her emotions show through. "she's just been on the phone with our american agent with the new york times numbers."

charles sat up, one of his warm hands going to rest on her thigh. "and?' he asked hesitantly, his piercing eyes meeting her uncertain ones in the dark.

"i made the top ten." she shouted, grin spreading all across her features.

making the new york times list had made everything worth it. all the sleepless nights when she had woken up with an idea she was scared to lose, all the rewrites, the weeks of writers block. the rejections, the aggravation, the insecurity.

this was it.

she had done it.

"i'm so proud of you." charles beamed, folding her into a hug. "i knew you could do it, my brilliant girl."

she dropped her phone on the bed, red-faced and giggly as she kissed him, allowing her hands to wander across his toned chest. "wanna show me just how much?"

THREE YEARS LATER

the theater was almost silent when the lights came up, the end credits of the final episode fading out on the screen. she held her breath, fingers gripping charles' hand so tightly that she thought she might break the fragile bones in her husband's fingers.

oh, yeah. they had gotten married about a year after her book had come out, while she was in the middle of writing as good as dead, the conclusion to the series.

since a good girls guide to murder had come out, her life had changed for the better. she felt more secure in herself and her talent, and the words had never come easier when she started writing the sequel, eager ton continue the story. she had since written two more books to complete the trilogy, as well as two standalone novels: five survive and the reappearance of rachel price. around the time that rachel price was announced, she had gotten another call from cecelia, asking if she and charles could come to london and meet with representatives from the bbc.

they wanted to turn her first book into a tv series.

she had been hands on from the beginning, throwing herself into her work and doing her best to make sure that the version of the story the readers saw on screen was the version that she had visualized when she'd first explained the storyboard to charles, the driver helping her connect everything on their living room wall with red yarn.

and now was the time. the time to see if it had all paid off. the theater was filled with minor celebrities, influencers, and the tiktokers who had made her book blow up in popularity.

it all came down this night.

"it's okay. whatever happens, you know you did your best." charles whispered in her ear, running one hand up and down her bare back. underneath the flimsy straps of her red dress.

she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath when the roar off applause began to drown her.

she rode the rush of emotions, allowing the tears of gratification and relief to ruin her mascara as she let her body go slack, resting against charles as she watched the room rise in a standing ovation for pippa and ravi.

"we did it. we made it, charles." she laughed, tilting her head up to kiss him.

"no, cherie. you did this. they're all here for you."

she watched as the event's host, a former spice girl that charles knew through his paddock connections, stepped out into the middle of the small stage set up at the front of the theater.

"and now, the moment i'm sure you've all been waiting for, a few words from y/n /y/l/n-leclerc!"

she wiped her eyes and fixed her hair, taking a deep breath before she walked across the stage, taking the microphone from geri halliwell, and turning to face the crowd.

in the front row, there was charles. her one true love. her biggest supporter.

and in that moment, she truly allowed herself to believe that she had made it.

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs

Summary: The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: E

Word Count: 7.2k

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ REVIEW THE TAGS! established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, blood drinking, exhibitionism, p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

It is in the end— after the blood had been shed, the world nearly ended. When you are once more alone, companions returning to their new obligations or new plights, when you are left with kind consolation and heavy goodbyes.

The city sleeps, yet often you do not. Residing at differing inns from night to night, you attempt to lead a life nameless once more. A lack of sleep, a predilection for forgetting. Perhaps that is also what led you here, entering a tavern prevalent in profound impropriety and bottomless drink.

The ale is a warm rush of current down your throat, a haze settling inside your mind. The scintillating fireplace of licking flames cast rhythms of shadow across unfamiliar faces.

You’re here on business… or rather, pursuing a whisper of opportunity. It isn’t unnatural to be stood up in this line of inquiry. Not many mages boast of wish spells, and even fewer know how to get their hands on one.

You had managed to not resort to needing Gale this long… so. Other avenues became necessary.

At least that is what you keep telling yourself as you keenly monitor the door.

One door close, and you pick lock it open, but your years in this line of work were hells bent on survival. Not miracles.

Yet, your miracles are not here. At least, one of them doesn’t show. The other you hope won’t.

You groan, cradling your head with your hands, then kneading balled fists against your eyes. The man eyeing you from across the bar coughs to conceal his sudden disinterest. Who can blame him? You’re pathetic.

“The deal is still on the table. You play your part just like you used to, and I help. The hero act wasn’t going to last, you know. Coming here is a testament to the matter.”

You grip the handle of your mug, your drink swishing to and fro. It all but topples over onto the front of your undershirt as you raise it to your lips. You take deep gulps, liquid dribbling down your chin. You smear it away.

You cannot get drunk quickly enough.

However, as the hour plays on, you begin to curse your tolerance of drink, as well as everything else gone wrong in the past months.

Fuck.

Gods, surely there is no use to this anymore—

A honeyed voice pollutes your buzz. It is a suave soliloquy, with syllables like rose petals. It wafts in the air, laughter silk soft with an undercut of severity. It prickles up your posture, and you are shrouded in thorns.

Fuck.

As sly as you may, you cast a glance over your shoulder, and there he is.

Without the tadpole's defiance of the sun, Astarion was thrust into the night once more, cavalierly caviling at the young man draped under his arm. The man is of noble build, with embroidered robes adorned in maroon and amethyst gems. The noble’s cheeks are a flush delight fueled by the splendor of Astarion’s charm.

The sight is the sea collapsing into you, wave after wave. Breath sealed in sinking lungs. You will drown if you don’t look away.

There are two awful realities to unfold before you.

One, how dismayingly odd the noble is for someone of Astarion’s taste. Just met his prime, early twenties, broad shoulders, and bright-eyed. These types were the kind Astarion would toy with until they bristled and cried. Not the kind he’d be involved with.

You swiftly shift to stare into your half-empty glass. A shiver stills your sigh.

Unless of course, the context of taste meant something entirely different.

Then it was most certainly his type.

You take a swig.

Second.

Astarion is philandering.

With your intended mark.

You shouldn’t look again. But you must be sure. On first inspection, the noble fits the bill all right; medium height, thin build, pale eyes, hair, and skin. The description checks out, everything but the—

A cacophony of swooning laughter manages to reach your side of the tavern.

“He laughs like a hyena.”

You turn, slow as if that will help conceal your gaze. It doesn’t.

Crimson eyes meet yours, and dread pollutes your surroundings, your thoughts, and your breath. Your stomach drops, the skin of your arms pebbling as a chill slinks its lips down your spine.

This is not how you planned the night to go.

There it is again, the clutch of your gut, the crater burrowing itself into the trenches of you.

You had not died— screaming, as he had last proclaimed. The reminder of those words, dripping in contempt, brazen in believed betrayal. They had marred your thoughts and sought to spoil the solace of your soul. The severance of your last encounter had sunk its teeth into you, chewed sinew, and spit out the scraps.

Astarion.

He whom you had given everything— anything— for. Gone. Never to be seen again.

But he is here— and you… you realize you really shouldn’t be.

You can’t be.

The mark can wait. There will be other nights.

Within a fluid movement, you set your mug aside, reach into your pouch, and spill gold coins across the counter. You make haste from the bar to the entrance. You slide behind shoulders and wade through strangers cackling and clinking cups unaware.

Even so, you feel him watching you.

The tavern bell chimes. You cringe with the acknowledgment it calls forth to you. The breath in your lungs constricts, the agony in the urgency to flee from his line of sight too much to endure.

Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be in the Underdark?

Did recognition pass across his countenance? He could have seen you but not see you.

This is the only comfort you can indulge in as you quicken your pace, the city lamp yellow hues sluicing and splaying across the street.

You’ve sobered up. Yet, everything is spinning. Swaying. Turning inside out.

You’re panicking.

A bell chimes and footfalls patter behind you. You don’t even need to look. The thought is nauseating. How well-versed you are in the sound of his steps.

“I hope you die screaming.”

It resounds in your mind just as he calls your name. It sounds foreign. It sounds like a memory. Like a dream, you never wake from.

You have half a mind to keep walking, roaming further into the city and into the surrounding, comforting dark.

He could want to make his past proclamation true.

Perhaps you’d let him if only to be rid of this ache.

This burden you bury beneath your smiles and behind your eyes, the loss of him you carry in your voice.

How it is known by all who know you.

“I didn’t think I would find you alone, in my time of the night. Where are your companions, darling?” His tone tinged in disdain; his darling laced with ridicule. There is a slow decline in breath. It staggers still in your lungs, like tangled strands caught in dragging dingers. Is it dread? Is it grief? Perhaps it is a touch of mourning.

You know now what you knew the last you spoke— you are the bearer for all that did not come to fruition. You are the reason he won’t say our companions. Our friends.

And though you loathe yourself for losing him, though you blame yourself for all the things you previously thought you were sheltering him from. You cannot endure this in silence any longer. Not when the chance to confront him is here.

Who are you to run away? You have spent your whole life running.

This isn’t imprisonment. This isn’t a life sentence.

Yet… isn’t it?

You can’t go on like this. You haven’t been.

You whip around, and Astarion stumbles into you. As you collide— his scarlet eyes widen, and a flash of recollection startling your pulse. The effect of being this close isn’t lost on you. You can see, even under the dim lanterns glow the crease of his brow, the wrinkle in his nose, the dip of his cupid’s bow. But just as sudden, he steels himself, stepping back and straightening, a glint in his glare, wrath warping his mouth and brandished on his tongue.

You muster the will to speak before he can.

“They were your companions as much as they were mine,” you bite back, though the spite of it makes you hesitate. Whatever you feel doesn’t matter.

“But…” you sigh, then start again, “that matters not…” you offer.

Your companions who watched you wither away the moment he left. Companions who offered you condolences yet spoke in passing of how things may have been different— for Astarion’s fate. It was blameless yet… how could they have not blamed you? And maybe that is why when it was over, you pushed them all away.

That is why you offered goodbyes in place of being a part of the next journey.

Karlach’s hand on your back, Shadowheart’s curt smile, La’zel’s tense jaw, Gale’s exasperation, Wyll’s sorry nod.

You’d never known family—let alone friends. So why grieve yourself over it?

Even if you gave all you could, even though you had killed yourself to keep the world.

It means nothing now.

All you can do is make him see sense. All you can do is convince him to listen, to hear you. You just didn’t think it would happen this soon when you are unready. When you are still angry— at yourself, at him, at everything.

“What matters is that I am sorry,” you plead, and Astarion teeters on his heel, bombarded by your insistence. But you can’t stop. Even if he thinks you are pathetic—distasteful or blunt.

Your hurt is too deep. You remember the vitriol in your supposed lover’s voice. You remember scrubbing your skin raw after the battle with Cazador. You remember numbly thinking if that was all you always were to him. A plot for protection. A ploy for power.

Hadn’t he said as much?

“I’m sorry how things ended. Now if that is all you wanted, let us be on our way,” you bitterly retort. You mean to turn your back on him, on all of this.

But just as sudden, the verses of carved intent burn at the inside of your wrist.

Dammit.

A contract is a contract.

Even if you walk away. Your past self has condemned you.

Abruptly, his cold, nimble fingers curl around your forearm. His filed nails nip into your skin— though the pain doesn’t end there. His touch burns through you fields of forlorn faith of anything different than the vile sure to leave his tongue.

He is incredulous.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say to me? Are you sorry to be reminded of how you refused to help me despite stating you would? How you ruin any chance of me ascending, of being more than my captor? You’re sorry?!” He bellows out, the way he does when things are far too outrageous to constrain within a reasonable decibel.

The words stick like tar and taste of arsenic. He must have rehearsed a version of these lines before, as he always made sure to hone his skill of slights. They puncture the air with each consonant, every vowel, as he draws you in closer.

His presence encircles you, a predator playing with its prey. He could end you here and now, drain you of all you are.

As if he hadn’t already.

You yank your arm away and vociferate back.

“I ruined your chance at becoming Cazador. You couldn’t see it. You wouldn’t. The spawn aside, you would have been damned. I love—” a near concession you barely manage to conceal, “I loved you,” you finish.

Dammit! You love him. His mean proclivity. His budding vulnerability. His gentle rebuffs. The sly quips, the grandiose turn of phrase, the sharp smiles, the soft uncertainty of palms alleviating parts of you that were left derelict. When the others slept, you’d glide your fingers through his strands of hair, humming quiet, close, gentle. You never knew if he truly saw you in the same way— as if you were precious as if you were his new comprehension of eternity.

It is why you’d been willing to risk your reputation to pay repentance. To earn some semblance of forgiveness.

Even if you had to become what you once were…

He wouldn’t have to.

And that is enough. Yet—

Yet, you blink and blink it back.

You can’t cry- not like this. Not now.

“I was trying to…” it almost tumbles from your tongue. Save you. That is what you mean to say. But it feels wrong to say it— it felt wrong even then, even if that is what you meant to do, even if it was done with intent rife with compassion, with desperation to help him. You know, deep down, he will despise you further if you admit it. You hadn’t wanted to fix him, but in that moment, you knew love would never heal him. Nor power. Not vengeance.

It was through choice— a choice you seemingly made for him.

So, you halt yourself. Shake your head, and turn away.

“Love?!” He sputters at your confession in disbelief. You hadn’t told him that before. It was never the right moment, or perhaps you feared rejection. Even if you had said it countless times, like the mantra pounding in your heart, would he have ever believed you?

He grips your wrist this time, preventing you from even daring to leave.

“I needed you. And you went back on your promise.” He says indignant. “I should kill you for what you took from me.” He gestures towards the blade sheathed at his hip and for an instant you… you wouldn’t mind if he did.

You’ve been beaten, bloodied, beguiled, spurned. What is left of you after the fight for the city? Victories wrought with death, a closure that did not fulfill. All of it was done with a broken heart.

Deep within, you cave.

How did we become this?

Your features crumble, brows pinching together and tears beginning to burn, threatening to descend your cheeks. You’d never let him see you cry. He’d heard you before… held you as you shook beside him. But never would you show your face. It was too much. For anyone.

Except… the night he left. In front of the others— you wept.

You cannot retreat into the night, for he knows the dark better than you. You had thought he’d known you better.

In the thralls of morality, you finally had the chance to do right by the world. So, you tried. Always.

It’s why he disliked you once. It’s why he cared for you later. It’s why he detests you now.

“Then go ahead Astarion, kill me if you must. But I… I love you with all of me. I promised I’d help you defeat Cazador. I never said I’d aid you in ascending. And you know— you had known I wouldn’t.”

It is a dagger through your heart, the tears have come, yet you cannot hide.

You’d said it.

Love. Not loved. Not the past tense, but the current, the now, the always, the evermore.

For a moment you think he didn’t hear you, didn’t believe you, or thought it a lie. With his proficiency in deceit, shouldn’t he recognize the absence of it?

Astarion’s resolve begins to crack. His lips twitched downward, his jaw tense. The watery remorse seeping into your voice makes him shutter, makes him step back. He clenches his fists, his eyes shutting tight. It’s as though he’s fighting— against what you say— against what has become of you both.

He opens his eyes, on the verge of tears.

“You had no right to refuse me,” he jabs his finger toward your chest, his words are crumpled, falling apart, “you said you would do what I needed.”

“I thought I was doing what you needed,” you insist, hands puncturing your wavering intonation, “That I— I couldn’t do what you wanted. And for that— I am sorry… I am sorry.”

You begin to cradle yourself, backing up, treading away from this… demise of you.

You mutter while meeting his eyes again.

“I know what you want now. I promise you will never see me again.”

Just as the others.

As soon as it leaves your lips, his hands are on your arm, at your wrist. He drags you down the dim alleyway between the tavern and the inn. He seizes you against the opposing wall, your body caged by his, your spine straightening to the cool press of brick.

He is all-consuming, a tidal wave. The moonlight combs through the waves of his hair and coruscates in the gleam of crimson irises. You inhale the aroma of his skin, and it riddles you speechless, the notes of rosemary, the undercurrent of bergamot and cinnamon intoxicating.

Anchoring you to the spot, Astarion is seething.

“No,” he pauses, squeezes his eyes closed, and shakes his head in contention before clenching your wrists tighter, pale red ringlets sure to form. “You don’t get to cry… you betrayed me. Maybe I didn’t become Cazador, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t become much worse.” A mirthless smile snags at the corner of his lips. He scrunches his nose, as if in disgust.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the one who did that to you. Don’t tell me you love me now.”

You steel yourself. You know the game he is playing all too well. You can’t let him see the wound he’s prying wide open, even if your heart is plummeting to the abyss inside your chest, even if your stomach churns.

You step into his space, causing him to flinch, his sneer slipping from his smug face. You murmur quiet, kind.

“You were afraid. I know. But power would not have quilled your fear. No one would hurt you more than you would have hurt yourself. You would have become everything you despise, and I couldn’t watch it happen.”

His grip has lessened. He looks at you with timid uncertainty.

Your voice hardens.

“You can hate me for it. You can kill me for it. But I never wanted to hurt you.”

What you say lingers in the air for a long moment. He regards you with an inscrutable expression.

But it shifts. It morphs. It becomes impenetrable, unknowable. Astarion does what he does best. He withdraws within himself. He counters with defiance.

“The path to the hells is paved with good intentions, my dear.”

You gasp as he releases your wrist, then bring his deft fingers to glide over the underside of your jaw. You shiver, ensnared by the sensation of his sharp nails, his thumb pressing against the seam of your lips, parting them ever so slightly. He drags his thumb over the plush of your bottom lip, and the breath strangled in your lungs releases in a broken sigh, his touch igniting a memory, only known by your skin.

He surveys you with a raised brow, with prowling eyes. His eyes peruse your body as his other hand descends your forearm, nails tracing an aimless motif. Fingers flow from there to the bend of your waist, featherlight over the fabric of your blouse. He curls his palm snugly on your side, thumb positioned beneath the underside of your breast. He can feel your inhale beneath his splaying fingertips. You exhale shakily slow, clinging to the façade of indifference. He tilts his head with a tsk of disapproval, then gently grips your chin.

He flattens his palm over part of your cheek and jaw, slanting your head. He brushes your hair aside, unveiling your neck, then skims his lips over the shell of your ear. He is so close, so familiar. The sanctuary of this nostalgia overcomes you. His cashmere voice is a susurration for surrender.

“Say you’ll let me,” he coos, and the sweet redolence of his presence pervades your senses. Yet, you must try to resist, even when his fingers at your side wade up and down, soothing, and — tempting. When his lips press beneath your ear, then over your pulse, warmth cascades down inside your core, and your knees buckle. You feel the heat bloom between your thighs, your sanity yielding from this all-encompassing yearning.

He drags his fangs over the nape of your neck yet does not bite. Instead, he hallows his cheeks and begins to suck, a violet blossom blooming into your skin beneath his mouth.

You tremble against him, another gasp fumbling from your lips.

“Oh.”

You feel him smile as he hums against the hollow of your throat in approval. Your hips jolt toward his, and you inhale brokenly as his arousal presses to your stomach. It is straining against the fabric of his trousers, firm and full.

Your lust threatens to unravel all sense. Your mind is in the mist.

Latching onto your heavy gaze with his own, he repeats himself.

“Say you’ll let me.”

He says it with resolute intonation, yet an inkling of doubt tinges the end of his sentence. It is not a command, though not a question either. Perchance, he is not sure for which he implies. If he is struggling with who he has created himself to be, or if he is still the Astarion you knew.

Never treading too far, too close, without reassurance. Yet, here, and now, he treads the line of persistence in proving to you the error of your ways. The error in endeavoring to see him, to know him for all the beautiful, the soft, and the gentle. For forgetting who he was made to be. For thinking ascension would be the thing that would break him when he, himself, is too far gone.

You ache with the love you have for him.

“Show me the kind of man you’ve become,” you reply, calm, “Why ask for permission?”

He hesitates for a moment, doe-eyed and dazed.

Then, he decides.

He tilts his head, looking at your lips.

“I wasn’t.” Astarion states, with a cadence of wavering insistence, and with it, you sink lower into the surrounding night.

Your body tensing, your pulse quickening.

His fingers leave your side and weave into the strands of your hair. He pulls your head into a slant once again, causing the nape of your neck to become completely and utterly exposed. The markings of his kisses are scattered along the skin, like that of his own design.

The moonlight swims in his half-hooded gaze, glints off his fangs, and fills you to the brim with trepidation.

There is a sudden, stark stillness in your body.

He mutters, insouciant, “I’ll bleed you dry.”

His breath is a warm flush on your skin, and then his fangs delve deep.

“Ahh!” you hiss, sagging into the adjacent wall. His lips enclose, as he begins to suck a stream of your blood into his voracious mouth. He is harsh in his thirst, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every thick swallow of your blood he takes, the tug of your hair eliciting a dull pain.

Despite this— a sinful sense of pleasure saturates the pain, as it always does when he feeds. Your pulse, heightened, like an orchid in full bloom, beating a deafening rhythm. It is reverberating in your ears, in your temples. Your fear once formidable now fleeting, flowing away with each draw of your blood to his lips.

The euphoria of feeding envelops you in a lukewarm embrace, milky mind a mirage. His grip eases on your hair, and he steadies your jaw with caressing fingers, the rush of your blood now a slow, steady pull from your veins. The effect of drinking entrances him, and you feel the hum of his moan, the lulling of his languorous lips.

It is as though you are being anointed, touched by phantom palms in all the places you yearn— the heat building beneath your skin like a fever that will burn you alive. Your voice, a lilt of his name, shivery and silver. He hmmms against your neck, and your fingers find their way into his curls, trailing your nails through his strands and over his scalp.

He groans, deep in his throat. It is just like the way he used to, those many months ago.

It is like your head is floating, the fever a flavor you sought to forget— but there is no forgetting, not when it is etched into the marrow, into your soul. You want him. So much, you are distraught with want, the heat coalescing at your core, seeping down your inner thighs.

He unlatches his mouth, just to mutter, voice drenched in desire, “I can taste it. You’re so eager for me.”

“I— I don’t—” you whimper in response, biting your lip. But as you try to deny—

Astarion holsters your wilting body up and shifts his knee, pushing it between your thighs. The friction is not nearly enough, yet all too much. You try to resist, yet all sense has vanished. You succumb to him, rolling your hips against his knee, aching for relief. Astarion’s breath catches in his lungs, and though your eyes have fallen shut, you don’t know if it’s to solely focus on the chase of a teetering high or to escape the city’s midnight mussitations. Maybe it is to memorize the motion of hips, the silk of his sigh, the bend of his fingers clenching and unclenching on your waist. It’s building and building, a relentless sea in the mellow meringue of his dipping vowels, the thrumming of this heat enough to drown in.

His knee drops, and despite yourself, you let out a faint whine. You think it is on purpose, a cruel way to deter your relief, yet he grips your hips and pulls you flush against him.

He feels so good, heavy, and thick, snug against where you need him most.

He grinds into you with every sashaying sigh, his head drooping into the crook of your neck. His dulcet exhales tremor through you, showering your head from toe. Your toes curl inside your boots, and your hands clench in fistfuls of his hair.

You don’t know how far this will go— especially here, only concealed by nightfall.

If it remained like this, insatiable, yet… safe. Not crossing the line…

Just as the thought nips at you, Astarion is wedging down the sides of your trousers inch by inch, your mound of curls peeking out from your underwear. He means to feel you, to know the wetness between your thighs. You clench them together, suddenly shy, sheepish at him having evidence of how eager you truly are, how completely he’s undone you with only this continual grazing of his hips, a brush of his lips to the shell of your ear.

You part your thighs, just barely enough for him to flatten his palm and curl his knuckles around your cunt, fingers a touch away from delving between your folds. Yet— he doesn’t. He hovers his fingers there. He is waiting for something yet can’t quite admit.

You know.

You nod, ever so slightly, and give in, letting him set the pace, letting him ascertain what he needs from you.

“Please,” you say, trying to withstand shifting into his touch.

His chest rises and falls. His ring finger slides over the seam of your lower lips, thumb a featherlight swirl around your clit. He teases his middle finger between your folds, sinking slowly until he is knuckle-deep. Your hands leave his hair and find purchase on his shoulders. Your head sways and you bite your bottom lip, stifling a moan.

“Mmmn—“

“You like this?” He says, not unkind. He gently pumps his finger in and out, in and out. A leisurely tempo of sweet torture.

“Yes.”

He lifts his head to look at you, crimson irises a thin ring, his pupils blown wide.

“You want more, don’t you darling,” he encourages you in a sly teasing tone, with a lilt of consideration.

“Yes—“

His ring finger pushes in, and you adjust to the width of them both. Your heartbeat is like a crescendo, as his fingers glide, soaked in your arousal. Again, and again, they pump into you, increasing in pressure, in pace. His thumb twirls over your clit, lazy circles compared to his fingers.

Your nose scrunches, your nails dig into his shoulders. He coos into your ear, praises of you sound so insatiable, such a good girl.

It’s coming, you know it when your hips begin to jut forward sporadically, the coil tightening in your core about to snap. Sizzles of stars pepper behind your eyelids, and stream down your spine.

But can you be quiet enough? What if someone hears you? Sees you?

The inkling of worry must show on your face.

“Just focus on my fingers,” he soothes, “on my voice.”

His thumb massages over your clit, and you gasp out a fragmented version of Ah—starion.

“Let me make you cum, sweetheart,” he susurrates, “you’re so beautiful like this. Clenching on my fingers, whimpering my name.”

His reassurances are relentless, and you tip over the edge of oblivion, rashly muffling your moans into his shoulder, into the fabric of his shirt. Waves of white wash over you, pulse thrumming in your chest.

It is pooling in your core, soaking his fingers, and dripping down his wrist.

You hear him give a shaky breath, wrought with longing and saccharine anguish by your release.

“I want you… I… I can’t— I need you,” he admits on impulse, his fingers sliding out from you, drenched. You tremble at the loss of them, nearly delirious in your post-high. His words make your core clench, make you feverish once more.

Does he mean to take you? Right here? Right now?

A concoction of concern looms over you, and you lift your head from his shoulder. You glance at him, then dart your gaze from one side of the alley, a dead-end brick wall, to the other side. The street before you is devoid of life, no Flaming Fist patrollers, no drunkards huddled in dusk. The lanterns give a dim glow, swaying in the cool breeze. Nevertheless, the light cannot reach you here. Though, surely someone will leave the tavern once the hour’s shade dissipates, to flee home from a brawl, or to sluggishly crawl into bed.

You look to him once more, and again it is as though he reads your mind.

“I know,” he sounds pained, head drooping. By the tension of his trousers, the shut of his eyes, perhaps he is.

“I won’t… we don’t have to,” he quietly assures, and it is so unlike the bravado of before. It is delicate.

You see him, the Astarion you had once been devoted to. Ready to fight for, to die for. And although it may lead to disaster, to the unraveling of your very being, you have never been surer.

This evidently wasn’t only about lust. If it had been, he’d have left you by now for your mark in the tavern. He wouldn’t have followed; he wouldn’t have touched. To be this close had always been a rarity done out of a need to be cared for, adored, to be cherished. Though he may never love you, though he may be planning to hurt you in a way worse than death, you… if only for tonight…

Your palm caresses his cheek, and you meet his eyes.

“I want you,” you murmur, “I’ll be quiet.”

A breath and his eyelashes fall over his eyes as they watch your lips. He leans in close.

“Let me hear you,” he states, then his lips are on yours. The seal of his lips eases the weight of hesitation from your skin, his honeyed mouth in harmony against yours. His tongue slides over the seam and you part your lips, tangling your tongue with his. His needy palms are at your waist, gripping and pulling you nearer as he angles his head, deepening the kiss. You nip at his bottom lip, and he groans in his throat.

You briefly come up for air, panting with the metallic aftertaste of your blood lingering on your tongue. A chill hits your exposed skin as he anchors his fingers at your pants once more, tugging them down until they fall to your knees. You step out of them, a flourish of fear amalgamating with shameful escalating arousal. He pulls you in for another kiss, as his fingers begin to fumble with his waistband. You aid in his endeavor, dragging his pants down until his cock can spring free.

You taste his steadying inhale. He breaks the kiss, then hooks one of your legs over his arm, pushing your back further into the wall, deeper into the cocooning shadow.

You are vibrating with anticipation, dripping onto the floor. He presses the head of his cock to you, and you quiver. He nuzzles it over your folds, then glides it back and forth, until it’s slick, until it’s ready.

You look at him, and the array of emotions passing over his countenance is like deciphering a blur of seasons changing. Your chest is heaving. You are fully bare, fully vulnerable, in more ways than one.

You need him so fucking bad, your hips push forward instinctively, the head of his cock nearly dipping inside you. He responds in a low, guttural grunt, hiking your leg a bit higher, bumping the tip of his cock against your sex once more.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, half delirious, half desperate, rolling his hips into you.

His brows are furrowed, white lashes cast over closed eyes. The damask rose of his flushed cheeks, the pink tips of his pointed ears, pale skin incandescent under the moonlight.

He feels so good, so heavy, and thick sliding over your sex.

He looks so beautiful, the corner of his lips smudged with your blood, the scarlet trail disappearing down his jaw.

But it matters not— his body, his beauty. It is all of him, in every way. The meadows of his mind, the lilies of his laugh. The valleys of his voice, the lavenders of his language. The willows of his worries, the serene of sunrise in his smiles—

Your heart could burst outside your chest. Your vision is a stretch of liquid silhouette.

“I love you,” you say, as if it is as natural as breathing, as simple as the sun rising at dawn.

He reacts in a tremulous exhale, nostrils a flare and the arm anchoring your leg falling a little.

A flush of embarrassment flames in your cheeks.

He probably didn’t mean for you to say that again.

An apology is on the tip of your tongue when he repositions himself at your entrance and sinks in.

Inch by inch.

“Ah—!” You gasp, yet his palm is quick to soften the sound as he encloses it over your mouth. You whine into his hand; your eyes rolling back as he sheathes himself inside your wet, hot heat. You squirm slightly to adjust to the girth of him. He doesn’t stop pressing forward until you are full to the brim.

Astarion pulls out almost completely, before slamming back inside. His hand falls a bit from your lips, and as if by instinct you part your lips, sucking his index and middle finger into your mouth. You peek at him with low-lidded eyes, and he curses the gods beneath his breath.

You hum around his fingers as he sets a sinful rhythm of a gradual outward pull, a heavy plunge in. The slapping of skin echoes softly in the alleyway, and it is downright disgraceful, yet you become lost in its soliloquy. He is undoing the tethers of your mind, diluting all sense.

There is no doubt he feels it too, his agonizingly slow pace increasing in intensity, his quiet pants becoming drawn-out moans.

“Gods, you feel so fucking good,” he mutters, pumping himself in and out, over, and over. You think you may go insane. His fingers pop from your mouth, and he takes hold of your chin.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you comply, though it makes you blush, makes you boil hot in your blood.

“Say it again,” Astarion commands, and you clench around him in astonishment, in a flare of pleasure. You whimper unintelligibly, glancing away, embarrassment steeping in your face as a surge of wetness coats his cock.

He nearly loses control.

“Say it,” he growls out as he slams deep into you again. His hand clasps your jaw, fingers a curve over part of your neck, urging you to look at him once more.

“I love you,” you confess. You feel tears beginning to prick your eyes, as an impending orgasm sears within you something fierce. Your cunt tightens over his cock, you feel him throb.

“Again.” He orders through clenched teeth, thrusts now sloppy, uneven.

“I love… I—” You try to speak, yet the words are a jumble from your mouth. It’s coming, oh fuck… it’s…

“I love you,” you profess, just as your orgasm consumes you in licks of flame, in rivers of euphoric relief, just as—

Fangs. Fangs delve deep into your neck, the shivery silk of your orgasmic high becoming static fuzz, as Astarion begins to drink your blood like he’d gone centuries without it.

You try to speak, but you are left speechless, as with each draw of your blood, you feel his cock pulse inside of you, his body shuttering, his groans vibrating into the hallow of your throat.

Astarion sucks hard, his hips slamming into yours as he reaches his climax. His cock spasms as he releases his seed inside you, droplets of his cum dripping to your feet. The rush of your blood being drained renders you weightless.

He is devouring you, mouthful, after mouthful.

“Astarion—” you plead, fingers clenching in his hair, tugging at his head. He won’t budge, won’t stop.

“Please,” you beg, tears beginning to cascade down your cheeks.

It is as though he can’t listen, as if set in a trance. Your heartbeat starts to slow, your sight fading.

Your grip loosens on his hair. You don’t pull— instead, you graze your fingernails over his scalp, like an ocean wave meeting the shore, trying to remind him, trying to—

BANG.

A door swings open, the sound emitting from the tavern. Astarion jolts, fangs yanking out of your flesh, blood spilling down his chin. His cock slips from you, and you sigh at the loss of him. Your consciousness ebbs in and out. You slump against the wall, almost unable to stand as he drops your leg to the floor.

You feel his frenzied hands at your ankles, yanking up your trousers. You numbly watch his flustered movements as he pries up his own pants.

Foreign voices ring out, an argument of sorts. You aren’t sure.

You aren’t sure of anything.

Astarion is mouthing words at you. His hair in disarray. His eyes glistening in the moonlight. He attempts to keep you standing, while scouring the floor for something.

“Please,” he suddenly sounds so frantic, so afraid. You feel something bump against your lips.

“Please drink. Darling, please,” he implores.

He tips the bottle and something familiar hits your tongue. You begin to gulp it down, the bottle trembling in his hold as you do.

A cool nourishment floods your body, and your senses and your surroundings return to you once more.

A potion of healing.

You drink until the bottle is empty. Though you feel rejuvenated, it is not enough to wholly quell the effects of blood loss. The skirmish down the street seizes your bones in realization, a welcome distraction from what just occurred.

You cannot get caught like this.

You hand the bottle back to Astarion wordlessly, avoiding his eyes. You double-check your body and find at least you are fully clothed. The sticky mess between your thighs and in the crook of your neck, however, brings anything but relief.

“We need to go.” You mutter emotionless, attempting to brush past him.

Could you still scale the wall in this state? It’s a miracle you’re even breathing right now.

Astarion grabs your wrist and says your name.

“You can’t,” he states, and again, he knows your thoughts. It does anything but endear you.

He continues, “Not like this. We need to wait for them to leave.”

“Why?” You bite back in a whisper. “So you can finish me off?”

He recoils with the stab of your words.

Good.

You yank your hand away.

It would have been one thing if he’d just had his meal, but instead, he made sure he had all of you.

You don’t know if it’s him you’re more upset with, or yourself. A sob claws at your throat. You turn away from him, approaching the wall. You begin to scope out a path for your hands and feet.

“It’s your fault.” He declares, and you stiffen, unmoving. You peer back at him.

“Yes. All my fault,” you move towards him, finger jabbing into his chest.

You take your wrist, and without forethought, smear it over the blood still wet at your neck.

You extend it out for him to see. A contract, made in blood, visible only in blood, illuminates in a yellow scrawl of initials on your skin.

“And I have done everything to make up for it.”

His eyes widen in shock. He grips your wrists, inspecting the golden glow of letters.

“Why—”

“A wish scroll,” you don’t let him finish, “I complete the contract, and I get a wish scroll. It could… it could cure you… or at least allow you to live in the sun.”

He drops your wrist, shaking his head in disbelief.

“How many?”

“Seventeen.”

He lets out a breath.

“Only seventeen?”

“Of noble birth,” you state, “though still far better than seven thousand.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

A voice rings out from down the street. Someone is calling the nightly patrollers.

You tense and then turn away once more.

“You’ll need me alive if you want that scroll. So, let’s part from here. I’m sure I can find you once I get it.”

“This isn’t you,” he argues, “the hero of the grove, the savior of Baldur’s gate, of the world. You can’t tell me your feelings for me are enough to inspire this.”

“Astarion.” You slide a palm down your face. This conversation is going nowhere, and you’re running out of time.

“There are things about me I never spoke of. That our friends could never know. I wanted to be something different, and I was. But this is more to me than that. You are more to me than that.”

He is silent. Your voice softens. You’re about to cry.

“I’ll see you when it’s over.”

Before he can respond, a CLANG clatters from the street. A rustle of feet, and voices rising. Someone is being arrested.

You don’t waste time to find out. You begin to scale the wall, ignoring the throb of your neck, and the exhaustion of your limbs. You force yourself to climb until you’ve reached the top.

You don’t look back at him. You slide over the other side, then hit the ground running.

You hear him call after you, yet you don’t stop. You won’t.

You run as far as you can, bitterly knowing that when morning comes, at least then you’ll be safe from him.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

To a Tea 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc. 

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU 

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk. 

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you. 

Summary:  A demanding customer grows increasingly needy.

Character:  Raymond Smith

The title is a pun, don’t @ me.

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved. 

You don’t often miss work, but that week, a burst pipe throws everything off. A morning spent waiting on your landlord, then the next few hours for a plumber, has things a bit off kilter. Even the next day, you’re not quite back on point. 

The patched wall next to fridge reminds you of the disaster and a dingy smell persists. You hope it doesn’t cling to you as you set off for your shift that day. If you can, you want to pick up some hours from others if their up for grabs. Harry doesn’t like Saturday’s, maybe he’ll hand over some. 

You try to leave your problems behind as you catch a bus down to the city centre. You get to the tea shop five minutes before the hour. Jenna’s wrapping up the opening tasks as you go to leave your things in the back. You tie on your apron and unlock the front door for the first customers of the day. 

At first, it’s a trickle. Never very much at all. The early risers who often come alone or if they aren’t, they don’t speak much or very loudly. The smell of fresh baking and the slow rising sun add to the lazy din. 

“Thought the special was strawberry today,” you comment as you transfer macarons from a cooled tray to the display. 

“Eh, it was but we didn’t have enough jam,” she shrugs. “Changed the sign, is all.” 

“Ah, thought my mind was lagging again. Everything’s been off since yesterday.” 

“Eh, how’s the apartment, anyhow? Marilyn said it was something about a leak?” 

“Burst pipe,” you explain, “they took out the wall above the sink, buncha clanging all day. When I tell you this place is like heaven.” 

She chuckles, “can be.” 

“There’s a formal tea booked in the Marigold Room at noon,” she intones, “forgot to mention that. With Mother’s day coming up, suppose we’ll get more bookings.” 

“Suppose,” you go to check the schedule hanging on the wall. “Party of twelve, wow.” 

“I’ll man the till. Honest, since those ladies at New Years, I’ve hated doing them.” 

“No problem, Harry should be here, shouldn’t he?” 

“Well, he’s... called in.” 

“Again?” You whine as you face her. 

“Are you really surprised?” She scoffs. 

“No one else to cover? Not even Louisa?” 

“Nah, she’s on holiday still.” 

You huff, “fine. Not much of a choose then, is it?” 

🫖

The tea room is as close to raucous as you’ve ever heard it. You have your back to the rest of the shop as you balance the stacked serving trays with an array of sponge cake, fruit, and biscuits. It’s the typical assortment for a tea party booking. 

You’ve already served the tea and the sandwiches, and dessert is the last bit, along with any further pots needed to be steeped throughout. With a partner, it isn’t hard to keep up, but alone, it’s rather overwhelming. Jenna does her best to assist but there aren’t many lulls around lunch time. 

Beyond that, the tourists are chatty. You could hardly get away to fetch each course as they wanted to chat about the culture and your suggestions of what they should do next. It’s nice that they’re friendly but still stressful. 

You put the trays on the cart and roll it around the counter. As you do, you nearly skid to a halt. In the rush, you hadn’t noticed him. Your eyes meet Raymond’s as he watches you. Intent, intense. You give an apologetic smile and nod in acknowledgement. Jenna wanted to deal with the main room, she’ll have to wipe down his table and do her best. 

You roll behind the wall and into the Marigold room. You present the tray and grab it by the ring at the top, lifting it onto the centre of the table. You roll around to gather the empty plates and cups, taking two pots for refill. 

You come back out and see Raymond standing, just as he was. He sees you too. Watching, hands folded, knuckles white, jaw set. He’s usually patient but you don’t know how long he’s been waiting. 

You roll behind the counter and sigh, clearing off the cart as Jenna steams a tea latte. 

“Can you wipe Raymond’s table?” You ask. 

“Who?” She furrows her brow. 

You glance over your shoulder toward the man in question and she follows. She rolls her eyes, “I tried, I wiped the the table. He didn’t sit.” 

“Hm, well... did you wash your hands first?” 

“Christ Almighty, what is he a child?” 

“Jen, he’s just... you know, my mom’s the same. He can’t help it.” 

“You can deal with him. I won’t be arsed,” she sniffs, “he was rude and you know I don’t got time for those ones.” 

“Jenna, I’m kinda up to my eyes,” you dump the used bags from a pot. “I know he can be prickly but just wash your hands and redo the table.” 

“Ugh, fine,” she sneers, “but you owe me.” 

“Let’s call it even,” you retort as you pour boiling water into the pots mouth. 

She shakes her head and huffs, “guess it is.” 

🫖

It’s nearly three in the afternoon. It’s quiet. Harry’s on his phone instead of doing the cups and your wiping the empty tables to keep yourself moving. The door opens and you glance over to make sure Harry’s alert. He’s not. 

Doesn’t matter. It’s him. Raymond. You stand and clutch the cloth tight in your hand as you greet him. 

“Be right with you, Raymond,” you assure him. 

He barely looks at you as he goes to wait next to his table. You go behind the counter and mutter under your breath in Harry’s direction, “...dirty cups.” You wash your hands and make sure to clink some of the empty porcelain in an effort to draw your coworker’s attention. He’s still entranced by his phone. 

You take the disinfectant wipes and go back out. You approach Raymond as he checks his watch. 

“How are you today?” You ask. 

He grumbles and shrugs, “fine.” 

“English Breakfast, black,” you declares as you finish wiping up, “usual.” 

“So you remember,” he challenges as he steps close, closer than ever, before sidling around to sit. 

“Of course, I always do,” you smile. 

“And last time?” 

“Last time...” 

“Twice.” 

You’re confused. What is he talking about? 

“I came on Tuesday and you weren’t here. Then on Thursday, you didn’t even say hello.” 

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, Raymond, it was a busy day. Tuesday, I had a personal emergency so I didn’t even know you’d been in--” 

“I’ll have my tea now,” he interjects tersely. 

“Right, tea,” you confirm and spin around. 

“Crooked strings,” he remarks dully, “again.” 

[vimbry]

*if you've heard a couple songs but don't really know much about them, or haven't listened in a long while, you can play!

update: the highest votes went to gudetama. but was it correct? here are the full titles and albums.

❌ "put your hand inside the puppet head" - they might be giants

the opening verse makes reference to leaving one's job and how "it's sad to say, you will romanticise all the things you've known before. it was not, not, not so great". according to flansburgh, "the lyric revolves around the idea that looking back on anything colors it in sentimentality".

❌ "I'll sink manhattan" - they'll need a crane (ep)/miscellaneous T

this is a flansburgh song, but linnell explained its meaning in a 1989 interview with NME as "a song about a guy who somehow figures out how to sink the island of manhattan just to kill his ex-lover, so it's his apology to the other people he's gonna kill in between. he's just gotta do it!"

❌ "meet james ensor" - john henry

it's about james ensor (belgium's famous painter).

❌ "wicked little critta" - mink car

from the tmbg unlimited collection: "forged in the crucible of an eastern massachusetts junior high, this song expresses the dreams, fears and hopes of a new england young adult" the lyrics seem to suggest said young adult fantasising about being a sports star alongside bobby orr and john havlicek while goofing off outside.

❌ "working undercover for the man" - mink car

from flansburgh: "it's more a meditation on the "mod squad" [a 1968 crime series about cool undercover detectives] than anything else. the idea of the narc just seems... like, those episodes of "dragnet" where they have the young undercover dress in a hippie suit."

✔️ "talent is an asset" - kimono my house

the lyrics illustrate an overly-cautious family shielding their very gifted child from others, to keep him studious and soak in all the glory, and is heavily implied to be little albert einstein through puns on relatives and relativity. it's not by them, tho. it's by the band sparks. it came 2nd, so I think many of you recognised it (or really wanted to see the results!)

❌ "bee of the bird of the moth" - the else

"this is a song about a creature called a hummingbird moth, which imitates another creature, which imitates yet another creature. it's completely fucked up, and can only be explained in song!" so they did.

❌ "2082" - join us

thewrap's review of the album describes this song as, "a science-fiction short story (...) a protagonist who travels into the future, finds himself hobbled but still unhappily alive all the way into the next millennium, and travels back to the title year to smother himself with a pillow in a mercy killing". fun!

❌ "call you mom" - nanobots

referred to by linnell as an "oedipus pan" song, the lyrics follow an unfortunate young man beginning a relationship with a woman, getting dumped due to his behaviour of treating her like a mother figure, then infantilising a possibly younger woman in a different relationship and in turn leaving her, who goes on to experience the same issues. fun! (altho, the final chorus actually still refers to her Mom leaving, not her dad, I got the details wrong there in the poll).

❌ "gudetama's busy days" - dial-a-song / my murdered remains

yes, that's a real song. quote flansburgh: "(...) it is really just about feeling isolated from the world, even if you are in a crowded place and manically trying to keep up with your life. the character of gudetama appealed to me because he is such a mopey sad sack."

❌ "marty beller mask" - album raises new and troubling questions

this is real, too! it's just about how marty beller was actually an alter ego of whitney houston the whole time. he's not, but wouldn't that be interesting. the song name-checks multiple of her own in the lyrics. it was temporarily retired out of respect following houston's death (4 months after its release), returning to live performances ten years later in 2022.

[heart2beom]

open the door, mr. choi!

synopsis: going up to yeonjun's dorm, the man you believe to be a complete tool, and asking to use his shower isn't very fun.

genre: one sided enemies to lovers, fluff, angst??

pairing: yeonjun x f!reader

warning: very unrealistic writing of living on campus (i'm manifesting here..), a curse word here and there

author notes: this is so incredibly short but i like writing banter so..lol this really is just banter. reblogging is appreciated!

Transferring to a different college mid semester for better opportunities proved to be that mistake. The mistake you realize is going to be hard to top, the biggest one you've made in your entire life.

In addition to losing daily contact with your friends, you were in a complete foreign city, practically stranded. You had zero relationship with your professors, there were completely different material you had to learn to pass exams, and you had no time to make any friends. even after you decided to go through the on-campus housing route, You were only on friendly speaking terms with your roommate.

You wished you reviewed the dormitories, but you hadn't which then cost you to learn that the girls dormitory had constant complaints about water supply; it was either the sink, the toilet, or the shower — it would just decide to stop working.

Thankfully, the time you've spent living with your roommate, you only experienced one — the sink. There were problems with it practically every other day, ten times more constant than everybody else. Which caused you to naively believe it canceled out all the other occuring problems everyone else had.

So, imagine your surprise when you walk in under the shower head, butt naked, with not one drop coming out on your hair.

"Yunjin!" you yell out, panicking as you adjust the diverter still with no sign of water. "Yunjin is the water out!?"

You sigh when you can't hear a response through the door, and opted to step out the shower, and carefully walk towards the door. You slightly open it, making sure to only poke your head out as your eyes wandered around the dorm.

Great, there's no sign of her.

When you get dressed again, you throw yourself on your bed, staring at the time on your phone. 8:39PM.

Your roommate had helped you out with getting a blind date, in hopes of "putting yourself out there". Though at the time you didn't meet her with much excitement, pretending to despise the idea—Currently, you were practically a few seconds away from pulling out your hair at the thought of missing it.

For god sake, you haven't been on a date since, what, two years? And even worse, when you finally got a chance, you weren't ditching the date on your own accord, but because you couldn't shower!

"I'm gonna fucking sue them!" you shout, directing your pit of rage at your ceiling. Though, right after, you bury your face in your pillow, groaning like a little child, knowing that no matter how many complaints you submit, there would be zero response. So, at the moment, it felt like the best thing to do was give up.

Give up and ...reschedule.

No, you can't—you won't. You have to go on the date—today. An adrenaline-like surge of determination motivates you to shoot up from your bed, and quickly head to your bathroom again. You will go on this date, you owe it to Yunjin—and also, to yourself.

When you look at the counter, you immediately spot the magic wand practically ogling at you, begging you to use it. Your deodorant.

What other option did you have? When you pick up the deodorant stick, you shut your eyes, praying that the combination between deodorant and perfume could manage to make you smell good enough. You exhale, the gross thought making it hard for you to even lift your shirt.

You hear a ping of your phone, quickly opening your eyes, dropping your hand, which in turn also gets your hand off the piece of fabric you were holding.

When you look at the notification, you exhaustedly exhale, your shoulders dropping. It wasn't surprising to see it was him. Yeonjun—the guy you've been working on a project with for the past few months.

And also, the guy you've been trying to avoid ever since you got assigned the project. He was practically a mosquito, buzzing near your ears every waking moment of the day. It was easier for him when he got your number, as per your professor's request. According to her, it would be easier for you two to communicate with each other's contact numbers.

But you begged to differ, especially after these tortuous days of having your phone go off randomly throughout the day. All it did was tear away your focus from more important matters.

You opt to ignore the text, like you always do— and focus on your preparation for your date. That is, until a light bulb lights up above your head, halting your movement, as you furrow your brows in thought.

The boy's dormitory never had an issue with water, it was a usual complaint you'd overhear girls around you say in your morning classes. Their issue was odor. Which you would bet a few cents that that was specifically the consequence of the herd of men living in one space, but you digress.

Sure, you aren't very fond of the idea to go up to the man you find pretty repulsive—in terms of personality, repulsive. He was the walking definition of a douche, but you just got a date, in two years! Who knows the next time you'll get the golden opportunity again? So, you grab your towel and head out the bathroom.

You only hope that your lack of answering back texts wouldn't backfire on you.

Though it took him a few knocks, Yeonjun finally opens his door. His jaw slacks a little and brows raised, clearly taken back by your sudden visit. You wait for him to say something—or rather, you take the time to study his figure for a good second; your eyes instinctually taking in how...good he looks. His dyed hair subtly spiking his eyes, his lips looking a little more pink than usual, and the flowy dress shirt being down two button, exposing his chest—

"Y/N checking out Yeonjun part, what, a hundred?" he stupidly grins, leaning on his door frame with his arms crossed.

"Part zero." you deadpan, he was back to getting on your nerves.

"Right..." he purses his lip, which earns an audible scoff from you, his confidence was astoundingly high. Normally, you'd think it was a praiseworthy trait, confident people are cool, but Yeonjun was something else.

"Okay—look, I have no time to waste. I need your help." you say, cutting to the chase.

"Clearly..." Yeonjun says, his gaze falling to the towel hanging on one arm, and a plastic bag tight in your hand.

"First, sorry for coming here so unexpectedly—"

"Hold on," he raises up a hand to stop you, which is an annoying thing he's been doing to you lately. "Did you just apologize? To me?" he then puts a hand on his heart, pouting like a child.

When you try to open your mouth again, his finger was on your lips in attempt to shut you up — he was getting dangerously confident. You glare at him, which sends the message loud and clear as he drops his hand immediately.

"Look, if you're here for the project, I can't. I actually have a bedtime I have to follow through."

You furrow your eyebrows in disbelief. "A bedtime? What are you? Twelve?"

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. "Damn it Y/N, this was the part where you were supposed to prove to me that you're worthy of me letting you in my dorm."

"I'm not here for the project, Yeonjun." you sigh, your energy drained from all his talking.

"Then what? It's like—" he raises his wrist to take a look at his watch. And to your dismay, his smug smile prepares you for some more teasing. "My, my, my. Coming to my dorm at nine? So I see it you changed your mind about, you know..." he puckers his lips in attempt to make smooching noises, which only earned a judgemental stare from your side.

"We're never going to have sex—ugh, I just came to use your shower, the one at my dorm stopped working." you've learned to stop yourself from engaging with his antics, it only cost you more social battery after all.

"Ah." he says, biting his lip as he appears to think more of your request. "I'm sorry, can't." he concludes.

"Huh? Why?" you ask then immediately groan at a thought, "God, do you have a girl naked in there?"

"You don't realize it sometimes Y/N, but you are a slut shamer."

You deadpan, letting out a long sigh. "Are you calling yourself a slut?"

"Frankly, for your information, I don't have a girl in there. She actually left a few minutes ago." he says ignoring your question, though he couldn't be happier from the annoyed reaction he got out of you— which he was quick to love and appreciate the more he got it.

You roll your eyes, "So, why can't you?"

"Glad you asked," he says, reaching in his pockets to dig out something. He faces his phone to you, your messages open, only blue texts being on the screen. "You've been ghosting me for like, two weeks."

So your lack of replying back is biting you in the ass.

You didn't have time, dropping the plastic bag full of your date clothes, reaching out to your pocket to get your phone.

You quickly type up an 'okay' without reading the text, and hit send. When you hear the sound of a notification from his phone, you put up a tight lipped smile as you shove your phone in your pockets, picking up your clothes and pushing yourself in his dorm.

Yeonjun broke into a smile you don't catch, as he looks back to you. "Breaking and entering is a felony Y/N!" he yells out.

You ignore him, your attention more focused on how weirdly neat his place was. Was he a fast cleaner? Tidying up the place this fast after sex?

You guessed that was what a long duration of experience gives you — the ability to clean up in minutes. But then you noticed a computer open, with the desk it's on being surrounded with crumbled paper.

Odd.

You hear the door shut, guessing it was Yeonjun, which snaps you out of your thoughts as you immediately head to the bathroom. If you stayed a second later, there was a 50% chance he would've stopped you to ask questions.

When you enter the bathroom, and lock the door behind you, you're pleasantly caught by surprise.

The smell—the smell wasn't foul. You hate to admit, in the back of your mind, you'd always have this image of Yeonjun—a player who was gross.

You don't exactly know why you held onto it for so long since there were multiple, multiple times you got close enough, that your nose could pick up his cologne—it smelled really good, not too strong, just enough.

And when you stand there in his bathroom, weirdly finding yourself inhaling the scent of the air—it smelled pretty fucking good.

A loud knock on the door your back is leaning on startles you, making you jump. "Hey, hurry up! I'm giving you fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes? What a psycho.

You shake your head at your own ungratefulness—he was letting you borrow his shower, which you genuinely appreciated, so you undressed quickly in hopes of showering forty minutes max.

You didn't pick up your hair brush with you, so consequently you were spending a great deal of time untangling your hair with your towel—which wasn't very..effecitve.

You already changed, obviously, but your makeup was undone. Just lipgloss was all you had time to do, you thought in your head, disappointed.

Not to forget—Yeonjun has been talking to you through the door the moment you shut the running water—not proving the mosquito reincarnation theories you've been holding onto, to be wrong. He was driving you very close to the edge of insanity.

"You're taking so long." he whines for the hundredth time. "I have to show you something."

You groan, walking towards the door. You were clothed now anyway, if opening the door would finally fix Yeonjun's mouth being a broken record, you would happily do it.

He shuffles away from the door when you push it open, flustered as he clears his throat.

Was he leaning on the door?

"What do you want?"

You think you see his eyes scanning your outfit for a second, a hint of confusion overtaking his expression but he turns away to walk towards the computer—the one that was previously surrounded with balled up paper, so you ignore it. "You look hot but I'll decide to ignore that. I have to show you something."

You exhale, your hair still pretty untamed. "Alright, I don't have that much time though."

He let himself fall on his spinning office chair, as he gestures his hand for you to sit at the edge of his bed.

You clear your throat, waiting for him to stop stalling through his spinning.

And he does.

"Okay." he exhaled, a little shakily. Which was weird. "So, remember the text you sent okay too?"

"Yeonjun...that just happened. Like an hour ago."

"Yep, yeah. Cool, cool, cool." he repeats, opting to spin once more. You raise an eyebrow, is he trolling you?

"I didn't like—you know, read the text. I mean, I can."

"You didn't read it? You should. Actually—nope, no. You shouldn't. You should. Yeah, you should."

You knit your eyebrows together at his odd speaking patterns. Reaching for your phone, you click on the message icon—until a number pops up, calling you.

All of a sudden, you get nervous. Your hand getting all clammy as you swiped right on the call.

"Hi." you breath out, biting your lip in eagerness to hear your date's voice.

Yeonjun only watches you, cocking his head at the sudden mood change. No—he was tilting his head because of all of that. Your dress, the matching bag, your lipgloss.

He furrows his brows, still watching you stutter on the phone, and practically making a fool of yourself with the way you were stupidly, prettily smiling ear to ear.

You never did that with him. Okay, sure, he likes seeing you roll your eyes or scoff at his antics— it brings him pure joy! But god, thinking now, he would appreciate it a hundred times more if your reaction to him was a smile—that smile instead. Or a laugh. Or a hug, maybe a kiss—

Time didn't wait for anyone—connecting the dots unfortunately only happened the moment you hung up the phone.

"Sorry, that was my date. I really have to go. What do you want to show me?"

"Um—uh...gross!"

You scrunch up your face, taken aback. "What?"

"You—you have, like, spinach stuck between your teeth."

Your eyes widen in shock immediately getting off the bed, but then you halt, turning to look at Yeonjun. "But I didn't eat spinach today. Or yesterday." you mumble.

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not a professional chef that can tell what that nasty piece of green leaf is in between your teeth."

"God, is it that bad?" you ask in horror, not waiting for his reply as you burst into the bathroom.

Meanwhile as you check your teeth in the mirror, Yeonjun immediately grabs the phone you left on his bed, which was still open—letting him breath in relief.

He immediately went on to his name on your phone to open the messages between you two—it was ridiculous but a smile still tugged on his lips for a split second when he noticed his contact name was the one he typed in a few months ago, still 'hottest man alive'—he took it a sign you didn't disagree... or it could be that you were too lazy to change it.

But he immediately shook his head out of the thought — doing his job of deleting the message that you sent an okay to.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you say with wide eyes, snatching your phone away from the boys hand.

"Just checking the time." he says with an awkward smile, a little startled of your sudden presence.

"On my phone? You literally have a watch." you say, your tone laced with confusion. Which signaled Yeonjun to shoot up from his bed, pushing you out towards the door—there was no way out of this but to push you out, and hopefully the date being horrible enough for you to forget about confronting him about this tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. Preferably, for the rest of his life on Earth.

"Time for you to leave!" he yells, finally getting you out of his dorm, and now out in the hallway.

Before you could say anything—for example, reminding him that 90% of the stuff you brought was still in the bathroom—he slammed the door right in your face.

When you recollect your shock, you scoff, your annoyance through the roof.

What was he looking at in your phone?

You open it, hoping to find the answer.

But you're only confused as you only see your chat with Yeonjun open.

And even more confused when the text length of the message before your 'okay' was way shorter than what you remember.

Meanwhile, Yeonjun was sitting on his desk chair, biting his lip as he hesitantly hit the delete button on the music project he's been working on.

ending a/n: i think i'm allergic to ending a fic with the two pairings getting together cz tell me why this was deadass just enemies to ????? T_T

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Congrats Sapph 👏 How about a Sunflower for Matt where Matt surprises Reader with a baked treat (store bought or homemade is up to you) after an awful, terrible, no good, very bad day?

Trudging towards your apartment door, your feet ached terribly. You’d been running around all day, mimicking a chicken with its head cut off no doubt, trying to meet your employer's impossible standards as you approached the end of the quarter. The stress of the month was palpable within your office, keeping you and your coworkers huddled in cubicles--ready to snap at any passing distractions.

You'd forgone many simple comforts in order to meet deadlines this week, which had steadily worsened your mood. Morning coffee with Matt. Slow, ambling walks to work, stopping for a pastry or a bagel from the corner deli. Even the pleasure of taking time to eat your lunch, rather than wolfing it down at your desk while tediously reviewing an Excel spreadsheet.

Your mornings were starting earlier than ever, forcing you to press a hasty kiss to Matt's cheek before you dashed into the dawn-lit city without him. Nights had become equally unsatisfying, tension at work leaving you so strung out you shoveled a slapped-together bowl of leftovers into your mouth before collapsing into bed before Matt even left the office.

Matt, always the loving boyfriend, hadn't complained once--instead leaving supportive messages on your phone and stocking the fridge with take out. Being forced to neglect your criminally compassionate partner was slowly breaking your heart.

A few more days and the madness would be over. The thought made you want to sob; the light at the end of the tunnel still seemed impossibly far away.

Sliding your rusted key into the lock, you unlatched the bolt and shouldered into the apartment. Toeing off your shoes, you inhaled shakily, tears building on your waterline. With dragging footsteps, you rounded the corner into your studio and gaped.

”What..the..fuck?“

The exasperated question meandered through the destroyed space as you stood staring at the mess. Your kitchen was in ruins. Flour and sugar coated your counters, used mixing bowls were strewn across every flat surface, and there was another pile of dishes in your sink. Eyes flitting around the room, you verified that you hadn't somehow broken into a neighbor's place.

As far as you knew, your place had been comfortably disheveled this morning. Chaotic but organized. What on earth had happened when you were at work? Had the pilsbury dough boy been murdered in your home?

Rage tangling with the confusion in your chest, you stalked towards the mess, swiping a finger through the residue on your countertops. Before you could decide whether to laugh or cry at your own misfortune, the door opened, making you jump.

Down the hallway, bearing a bashful smile, was Matt.

”I am so sorry, sweetheart. I lost track of time.” Pacing over to you, Matt extended his arms, letting you fall against him. The paper bag in his left hand crinkled as he tightened the embrace. ”I will clean all of this up, I promise.“

”Um, what..what are you doing here?“ You settled on a less frustrated question, knowing Matt's explanation would probably wash your anger away.

”I was hoping to have a snack ready for you when you got home. You've been having such a tough few weeks, I wanted to do something for you. So I called your mom for that pumpkin cake recipe you like so much.“ One hand kneading your back, Matt unwrapped the parcel with his other hand. ”But your nutmeg was expired and I wanted it to be perfect so I--“

”You're making a pumpkin roll?“ You asked in surprise, your vision blurring with tears as your emotions overwhelmed you.

”I was trying!“ Matt chuckled, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”I'm so sorry about the mess. I didn't mean to stress you out.“

”You didn't.“ You sniffled, tears falling in earnest now. ”I mean, maybe at first, but I don't care about the dishes now. You're just...“

Reluctantly allowing Matt to step away from you, your eyes fluttered shut as he brushed the damp trails from your cheeks with his fingertips. ”I'm just what?“ Matt smirked, clearly holding back an affectionate laugh.

Diving back into his chest, you nuzzled his shoulder with a sigh. ”Perfect, Matt. You're perfect. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Why don't you go turn something on the TV while I finish in the kitchen?”

Nearly groaning at how heavenly Matt's suggestion sounded, you pecked his lips before pulling away. “Sit with me once it's in the oven?”

“Of course, love.” Pressing a final kiss to your forehead, Matt whisked off to finish what he'd started, leaving you to stare after him with a look of gratitude.

[bullet-prooflove]

5000 Follower Celebration: Postcards From My Heart - Terry Silver x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @thedeadsingforme @eddieslut69 @mia1653 @kimbergoldess

Companion piece to:

Attention - Terry hasn't been paying you enough attention.

Distance - Terry and you struggle with emotional distance as the embezzlement case continues.

Prequel to:

Twenty Four Hours - You come home from your trip to spend 24 hours with your husband.

The embezzlement investigation takes hold when Terry reports the crime to the FBI. He’s spent months trying to untangle it on his own and now it’s gotten to the point where he’s forced to hand over all the details to the authorities or risk looking complicit.

The unfortunate part to all of this is that he has to make himself available to investigators, which means he has to stay in the city while you undertake the gallery tour across Europe you’ve had planned for over a year now.

Ever since the exhibition with the paper airplanes went viral, galleries from around the world have been requesting both you and your artwork’s presence at their venues. They want to discuss the programs you’ve been undertaking and how to implement them in their own locations whilst showcasing your paintings.

You end up going alone and it kills Terry because things between the two of you, they’re still not entirely right after the night you asked him if he was seeing someone else. He’s tried to be more attentive but the embezzlement it’s eating up both his time and his energy. He doesn’t even get to see you off at the airport because he’s trapped in a meeting with federal investigators. You don’t say how much it disappoints you but he feels it viscerally as he tracks your flight right out of his orbit.

He worries that this trip, the distance between the two of you, it’ll be the thing that kills your marriage especially when he misses three of your calls in a row over a series of days. He tries calling you back but with the time difference, you just keep missing each other.

When the postcard arrives his heart sinks, it’s an image of the small chapel where the two of you married in Tuscany. He’s filled with an intense sadness because this was the real reason he wanted to take the trip, he’d been planning to surprise you, review your vows there and then the whole thing had gotten fucked up and now you’re barely exchanging texts.  

By the time the postcard arrives from Paris you’ve been gone almost a fortnight. Terry’s eating breakfast alone, preparing for another lengthy day of depositions when the call comes through.

“Guess where I am.” You say as you appear on the screen and something in Terry’s chest just settles.

After so many missed connections he’s been dreading this call because he’s adamant it’s going to be the one where you tell him you’re done with all of this but then he sees the expression on your face and for Terry, it could light up an entire room.

“Tell me.” He urges, his voice soft and you alter the camera to show him the bench in the gallery where the two of you met. You zoom in closely and there’s a tiny heart with both of your initials drawn in the corner in black sharpie.

“Georgia,” He says fondly. “Did you deface a bench in the Louvre?”

“I’m hoping they kinda take it like a Banksy.” You tell him before turning the camera back so he can see your face. “You know how he just turns up, graffitis something and then disappears. I’ve been doing it everywhere we’ve been together on this trip. I even tagged the church.”

“You did not!” He smiles because he realises what you’ve been doing whilst you’ve been on tour, you’ve been marking your relationship, making it indelible. He can’t describe how that makes him feel, to know that you’ve been thinking about him, that you’ve been leaving the evidence of your marriage on landmarks all around the world.  

“I did.” You assure him. “Right on the pew you got a little handsy that time whilst we were waiting for the priest.”

“You were wearing that white sundress.” He reminds you, propping his chin up on his hand. “Can you blame me for defiling you in a church?"

You blush then, the pink tinge climbing your cheeks because he’d made you come on his fingers on that pew, it had been embarrassingly easy because you’d gotten off on the deviance of it all.

“You look tired.” You say quietly as you settle yourself on the bench. “How are the depositions going?”

“Monotonous.” He tells you with a weary smile. “I feel like it’s taken ten years off my life.”

“Do you need me to come home?” You ask him, the concern evident in your features. “I’m sure there’s a flight I could grab…”

The fact you’re willing to cut this trip short if he needs it, it speaks volumes about your headspace about the relationship, just like your actions have. He can’t ask you to return to him, not when you’re doing such excellent work out there, not when you’re having so much fun.

“No baby girl, don’t come back until you’re ready.” He murmurs before he props his phone up against the salt shaker. “Now tell me more about your travels.”

Love Terry? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[animasolaoriginal]

A B A N D O N E D 🥀 1/3

A new-in-town urban explorer stumbles upon a (not so) well hidden secret in an abandoned building, turning his life upside down when he takes more than pictures and leaves more than footprints.

Normal dude meets broken girl turned sex toy

WARNINGS: Urban exploration. Implied past rape. Implied past caning. Wounds and injuries. Objectification. Submissive character. Strangers to lovers. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Fluff. Eventual smut*. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 7.6k

A/N: This is a spin-off to my original story INFATUATED, set in the same universe. There's no need to have read INFATUATED, just know that there's a man we refer to as Sir who took in (kidnapped) a girl we refer to as Darling to make her his personal little plaything (but then proceeds to develop “feelings” for her), and this is the story of one of the unfortunate girls before her. A "study" on what a normal dude may think about an abandoned sub. Remember: this is fiction! A product of my own sick little mind, a fantasy. Our guy here may have some opinions later that may or may not stem from my own view on things (just some rants about certain kinks, and if those insult you, please forgive me, I don't mean any kink shaming. Everyone is valid around here – except Sir who might not get the best reviews in this story). By the way, the protagonist may have a name here, but it's only mentioned a few times, so you can still imagine any character here if you want to!

1 🟢 2 🟢 3

Glass crunches beneath his boots as he makes his way through the abandoned building. It's eerily quiet, just the wind howling through the broken windows and holes in the walls. The occasional rustle when debris or dry leaves move under the breeze. Nature's completely reclaimed this old house that used to be an apartment building with a bunch of tiny shops on the ground floor. Too off the beaten path, the shops became obsolete when a large mall opened only a few blocks away.

He's also in a very bad neighborhood, and nobody seemed to care about this particular building for a long time. Overgrown and broken, glass panes a good target practice for your usual teenage delinquent or bored child, doors ripped off their hinges by age and decay and maybe some random angry dude who needed a place to vent. Furniture long gone, either taken along or stolen later, things that couldn't be moved too easily (like sinks or toilet bowls) smashed into tiny pieces.

Normally he prefers places stuck in time, where tragedy struck and nobody's been back in decades, with faded photos on the walls or on dusty shelves, the smell of slowly rotting armchairs and a hint of mold in the air. Those make the best pictures. Little time capsules, evidence of older times, in the midst of a blooming bustling city. This building, however, looked more promising from the outside.

He raises his camera and takes a shot of a broken window where thick vines of ivy crawl around the frame and up the wall, the light of the setting sun giving the scene a soft glow. He changes the angle a few times, then moves on, up the stairs, looks through open doors into old apartments, mostly empty, walls vandalized with crude, unreadable graffiti, carpets full of dirt and a (not so) healthy layer of mold.

What strikes him as a little unusual is that the hallways look as if used fairly often, leaves and dust bunnies line the sides, but there's a path between the debris, leading further up the building. Not too unusual, these kinds of buildings usually attract a lot of shady people or bored teenagers, some to meet for illegal business deals, other to party hard in a place Mom and Dad cannot find them.

Maybe it's used for all kinds of things as he notices a growing abundance of empty soda cans, broken alcohol bottles and other garbage lying around (the most striking sight was a trail of discarded condoms and empty lube bottles). His destination is the roof, maybe he can at least snap some pictures of the sunset and the city around him from this place, for all he got now are shots of broken windows, nature reclaiming the urban space and your typical down-the-hallway shot. He even found the one-single-chair-in-the-middle-of-an-empty-room motif.

Of course he's not the first urbexer to walk through here, it's been abandoned for a long time, probably old news for the locals, but this is his first time here, in the city too, and he wanted to see as many abandoned things as possible. He heard from others that this house had good bones, meaning stable stairs and floors, no risk of breaking through and landing in the moldy basement with a pipe through your torso. He is looking for adventure, the thrill of being alone in a lost place, inhaling the intoxicating scent of debris and decay, he is not looking to pay a horrendous hospital bill because he's been too careless.

He takes the last section of the winding staircase, stepping onto the upper most floor, the roof access visible at the end of the corridor. There he hesitates. Unlike the floors below him, there's something different here. It's not as dirty, and the most prominent thing: all the doors are intact and closed. It almost looks like an actual floor of a still lived-in apartment building where you would find the same amount of dust and grime on the floors and walls.

Raising his camera, he takes a few shots, cursing when he realizes it's too dark to get it lined up best. The only light source is a badly boarded-up window at the end of the hallway, a tiny skylight above him and the glow creeping up over the staircase from the lower levels. Why is this window boarded up? What's happening up here that nobody wants to have witnesses for? There are other buildings around this one, still functional, mostly, probably for seedy reasons as well, but there's still the chance of people noticing what's going on here.

The closed doors irritate him. Everything else about this building was ripped out and broken and vandalized, nothing left in its former state. He came in through a bent-out-of-shape shutter gate, most of the former shops have so many holes it's fairly easy to get access to the rest of the house. And nobody seems to care about people walking about. There's an old No Trespassing sign near the boarded-up front door, but that's about it.

Though it doesn't surprise him in this kind of neighborhood. He might be new in this city, but he knows a crime haven when he sees one. Everything looks old and run down, shops are only fronts for other businesses, grim looking people stand around, gangs linger in groups in neglected parks or on the curb corners. He also saw some prostitutes walking the streets, looking as worn and shabby as the clothes they were wearing. Most normal people would avoid going deeper into the belly of the beast, but he likes the more dangerous places, and frankly, he fits right in.

Tall and bulky, he could pass as one of those bouncers standing in front of shady clubs, but he looks also young enough to be confused with a fresh gang member or mafia initiate or whatever. At least he thinks so because he's gotten no curious stares as he entered the neighborhood. Though he was glad nobody talked to him, his accent would have given him away for sure.

He feels his heart beating faster when he approaches one of the closed doors, the hairs on his arms rising in anticipation. It's a thrill to find something unusual in a place you've already pushed aside and declared boring. His hand grabs the door handle, twists it... and nothing happens. Locked. A locked door in an abandoned building. How curious. He tries the other ones, the same thing occurs. When he reaches the last door, he almost jumps back when the knob turns and the door opens with a click and then a creepy squeak.

One open room on a floor full of locked doors. His breath quickens, but he forces himself to remain calm. He doesn't even know what he's expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. The room is almost bare (but not as empty as the rooms he's seen before), aged wallpaper peels from the walls, the windows are covered by thick curtains, old and rugged looking, there's a couch in one corner, covered in blankets that have seen better days too. But the most unnerving sight is the bed in the middle of the room.

It's literally in the middle of the room, a sturdy looking metal frame he could walk around if he wanted to. But for now he only stares. There are handcuffs chained to the headboard, ropes tied to the low bed posts. And then there are the stains on the old mattress, lighter and darker ones, some are definitely blood. Old and dried, though one looks a little fresher, on the lower part of the bed. He's mesmerized, disgusted but mesmerized, almost forgets the weight around his neck before a shiver crashes through him.

It's an automated gesture to raise his camera and take pictures of what he sees. Pics or it didn't happen. It's a strange sight, but he isn't sure he wants to share this scene on his official page. He's known for showing off decaying architecture and nature reclaiming its place in the world full of stone and people. To share a potential sex dungeon might not be the way to go. But he still has his side blog. He has to share this, work through the experience, hoping somebody knows something about this.

Though he hasn't even seen everything. Slowly he takes a step into the room. There's a table behind the door, a longer one, fit for a person to lie on, and the leather belts attached to it suggest the same. Fuck. Is this really one of those freaky sex rooms?

He doesn't want to imagine what goes on in here, but he can't completely ignore that he has seen similar settings in various porn clips. Echoes of crying girls crash through his mind, creepily leering men in ski masks standing around the bed, the table, the couch, cocks in hand, others holding paddles, canes, vibrators, ready to torment whoever is unfortunate enough to be strapped to the structures.

He wants to believe there's consent involved, a scene being played out, discussed beforehand, those girls willingly trapped with a bunch of horny men, but sometimes it's hard to imagine that anyone would want to go through that on their own free will. He swallows, only now noticing the stench of the room. Sweat and sex, various bodily fluids all around, with a metallic undertone. Blood.

Shivering he can't help himself, he takes more pictures, walks around the room as if treading on thin ice, careful not to disturb the scene. He's also hyper aware of the noises around him now, the low buzz of the city beyond, voices passing by the building, birds landing on the roof above him, pigeons cooing, crows cawing, seagulls screaming. He tells himself he'd hear if somebody came back to clean up the scene he's witnessing right now. He could flee to the roof, hide it out, maybe find a way down from there.

Goosebumps attack his bare forearms when he rounds the bed and notices a pile of blankets on the floor. But it's the hair poking out of it that makes his heart stop. No. He freezes on the spot, staring down, camera heavy in his hand. He's heard stories of other urban explorers encountering unsettling things, the more harmless one coming into contact with a squatter, either awake or passed out in some corner, and the most disturbing one... stepping onto a crime scene, finding blood, bones... or dead bodies.

Yet instead of panicking, with the urge to run as quickly as he can, he finds himself staring with an obscene fascination. His eyes trail the blanket, noticing how it's wrapped around whatever is curled up inside it, and he bends down a little, crouching beside it, the smell overwhelmingly strong down here. His stomach protests, but his curiosity is too obnoxious to ignore. Shifting his camera into his other hand, he reaches out, carefully, knowing he should probably wear gloves, but he also doesn't care. He has to know.

His fingers grip the edge of the blanket, and he pulls, gently, his eyes widening as the scene unfolds in front of him – together with the body of a girl unfurling from its curled-up position. He will never share his first impression with anyone, because it's primal, an instinct, the thought of a man whose cock has a mind of its own: she's pretty.

Also naked, covered in grime and other substances, pale skin adorned with angry red welts and purple bruises, something pink caked between her thighs. She's on her side, legs scissored open, arms bound behind her back. Her thick dark hair is braided into two pigtails, and one of them seems to be cut off as the hair frays out and lies around her head like a dark halo. Tears and sweat allowed a thick layer of dust and dirt to cake to her face. Eyes closed, long dark lashes clumped, full lips swollen and raw looking, slightly parted.

Before he continues taking in every detail of her, he has the urge to bring his finger to her nose, and the relief when he feels the slightest bit of air movement against his skin lets him exhale loudly as well. She is not dead. And there's the problem. She looks like she should be, like it would be the better fate. The sight scares him as much as it fuels his morbid fascination, which may explain why he's still frozen on the spot, staring at her instead of calling the police or an ambulance or doing anything to help her. He can't take his eyes off her.

Her slender neck is covered in dark bruises as if someone has tried to strangle her, probably thought they succeeded too. Why else would she lie on the floor here? Left behind after whoever assaulted her was done? And assaulted she was. Sexually, physically. The welts on her body look horrible, thin red lines all over her small breasts, her stomach, her hips, her thighs, on her ass as well from what he can tell. She was caned, the poor thing. He hates watching those kinds of porn videos. He can see the appeal of spanking, the hand on ass contact, but hitting someone with a rigid cane doesn't seem very pleasurable, it's only about inflicting pain and having evidence of it days later.

A sadistic move, and sadists were definitely at work here. There are more bruises on her thighs, probably from strong hands holding her down and open while various cocks forced themselves into her holes. He feels his cheeks warming up when he takes a closer look at her pussy. Apart from layers upon layers of what he assumes to be cum and other fluids, there are welts and bruises on there too, on the soft skin of her inner thighs, on her puffy outer lips (that look stretched as if held back and open by clamps or whatever these bastards used), but most are on the strangely swollen clit. Ugh. Genital torture, a genre he really hates. Spanking a woman's clit is just downright sick and barbaric.

The more he looks at her, the worse he feels. Not just for what she had to go through, but knowing he can't really help her. How should he? Call the police and wait for other horny men to find her? He never trusted the cops, and in a neighborhood like this he is certain there won't be a good guy among them. Calling an ambulance may be an option, if he does it anonymously and flees the scene quickly, but that leaves him wondering if anyone ever found her. And again, in an area like this, the people who did this may still be around watching the place, stopping help before it can get anywhere, maybe even finishing the job, killing her.

And if he stays and wait, he will be in danger of those people seeing him, and as he now knows too much, even took pictures of the evidence, what's stopping them from killing him too? And even if they don't find him, he fears the damn hospital bill might be his end. Yes, strange priorities, but his brain is buzzing and he feels sick and nauseous the longer he stays in this horrible room, staring down at the poor girl.

She looks younger than him, maybe a few years, maybe a lot, the pigtails give the illusion she might still be a teenager, but her body looks too developed for that. A thin face with high cheekbones, no baby fat, soft albeit small breasts, a narrow waist, plump hips, thighs just rounded enough to create that amazing thigh gap he likes so much. The initial thought is still there, and his cock agrees, she is beautiful, despite the state she is in.

And maybe that's why he forms an idea in his head: why not take her with him? Away from this place, into safety, then assess what help he can get her. She can't stay here, that's for sure. A better man would face the danger of being discovered by her abusers, to make sure she'll get the care she needs, no matter how expensive and uncomfortable it may get. A better man wouldn't crouch beside her limp body and stare and drool.

But he's not. He's a runaway, dropped out of college to party, then got too old and paranoid to return. Too distracted by the world around him. Traveling on a budget, with just enough money to feed himself once a day, couch surfing, loitering, pissing his life away one day at a time. It's only been during the last years that he's gotten a bit more stable, making a name for himself as a photographer, selling prints and doing commissions, and by coming into this city he's hoped to make it even bigger.

Renting an old loft he hopes to transform into a photo studio one day, he's trying to settle down. He still has barely any money, lives off those stupid strangers willing to pay for his pictures even though they're not even that special. He always hopes for the occasional exceptional find, something he could sell to newspapers, but even those prefer to steal their pictures off other people's Instagram instead of paying for a more professional shot. Tough times.

As he crouches next to the unconscious girl, the hand holding his camera twitches. It's an instinct to raise it, bring it in front of his eyes, look through the finder and press his thumb down to take a picture of her. He feels sick for it, but also... not. She's part of this little sex dungeon, the main attraction, actually, and it's an inborn need to burn her image into a bunch of pixels. Pics or it didn't happen. He considers sharing her story with whatever newspaper may want it, but then his name would be attached to the evidence, he could be linked to this scene, and what's stopping any corrupt cop to call him guilty for this? Or the bad guys to come and erase any kind of evidence? Him and her included?

She can't stay here. He can't keep staring at her. Something has to happen.

Before he puts his camera into his backpack, he can't help but take a few more pictures of her, of her wounds and injuries, of the evidence caked to her skin, the blood trailing down her inner thigh. Maybe justice will come one day, but he'll need pictures of the crime scene to make it happen. He also snaps a few shots of her face, peaceful in slumber, of her soft curves, those tiny feet with the ankles covered in rope burn. Those he does in several angles, maybe he has a future in selling feet pics. And it's not his fault the market exists.

The world is a sick place, and he's just trudging along.

Eventually he stores his camera in his backpack, then moves the blanket back around the girl. His hand finds her cheek, and it's warm to the touch, she's certainly still alive, and probably in pain, so he doesn't want to disturb the few quiet moments this cruel world has given her. He wraps her up and scoops her into his arms, a barely there weight, poor thing looks and feels malnourished on top of being treated so horribly.

Lifting her up, he realizes the light has turned from the soft sunset glow into the harsher, darker tones of the street lamps coming to life. Time to go. Maybe her abusers will return soon. He carries her out of the room, she's warm and soft in his arms, head resting against his shoulder, hair and one half of her face peeking out of the blanket cocoon. She's tiny, in comparison and in general, and knowing her fate he feels even worse for her.

His heart clenches by the time he's descended all those stairs, and when he reaches his point of entry, he hesitates. It's one thing to slip into a building during the day, nobody cares about a man with a camera creeping around old houses much, at least not in this kind of area, but knowing this place is frequently used for terrible little sex adventures, he feels uneasy now. The night is fast approaching, and he knows these kinds of things probably happen when the shadows fall.

Looking around, he decides to find another exit, preferably one leading around the back, and luck is on his side when he finds a broken window looking into a backyard filled with black trash bags. With the girl still in his arms, he climbs through, but slips on something at the last second. Curling his back, trying not to harm her further, he feels his backpack scraping over the rough wall, hoping it didn't damage his camera. It's one of his few prized possessions, but thinking about it, maybe he should reconsider his priorities.

He's carrying a life in his arms, a life he intends to save, so a broken camera, a replaceable thing, really isn't that big of a deal. He can always salvage the SD card inside anyway. No harm done. Rolling his shoulders, he shifts her against his chest, then continues through the dark alley. He's parked the hunk of metal he calls his car a few blocks away, at the edge of the neighborhood, hoping he'll still have all tires when he returns.

And indeed they are all there, as full and dirty as he's left them. The old truck was the last thing he could afford after renting out the loft, so even if he's bound to this city, relying on random strangers to finance his life, he has a means to get away if he has to. For now, he's pulling the passenger door open and carefully puts down the bundle of limbs and hair and blankets, and when he does, she suddenly stirs.

He freezes, staring at her as her eyelids flutter open. A soft groan escapes her, but when her wide eyes, beautiful dark irises, glazed and a little dull, but beautiful nonetheless, meet his, she stiffens too, lips parted, and he expects a scream, a distress call, anything, but she doesn't issue a single peep, just looks at him, almost calm, probably just glad she's still alive or thinking she died and woke up in a weird realm between the worlds where it's normal to wake up in unfamiliar places, facing unfamiliar people.

He still feels the need to calm her. “Hey, it's alright. No need to be afraid, I'm not here to harm you. I want to help you, okay? Do you understand?”

She blinks, her lips trembling, but then she utters a barely audible “Yes, sir”, and he feels his heart jumping a little. To his own shame, his cock does the same. He clears his throat, nods to her, then closes the door with a thud and rounds the car, putting his backpack into the covered truck bed. Her eyes are following him when he slips behind the wheel, despite her slouched position on the seat. She's eerily quiet, not at all concerned about a strange man packing her into his car.

He watches her as he pulls the seat belt over her small frame, then buckles himself in. “You'll be alright,” he says softly, giving her the hint of a smile, and she continues staring at him. She must be in shock, no other way to explain this behavior, probably fighting the pain coursing through her, the soreness and burning, the stickiness between her thighs, the memory of the whole ordeal. He can't blame her. It must have been absolute hell.

He starts the car, glad it does so on the first try, and maneuvers it back into the nightly city traffic until they reach the old warehouse at the edge of it. It's the cheapest he could find, between two concerning neighborhoods, but those are still better than the one he found her in. At least he has running water and electricity, and a bed. Hmm. One bed. He'll give it to her for now, trying to squeeze his big body onto the small couch. It'll work.

She's still only staring at him when he unbuckles her and picks her up, though her breaths are a bit more labored. Maybe the shock is fading, letting through the pain more and more. He hums soothingly to her, tells her it'll be alright, knowing the more he'll repeat that, the more she'll believe it. It's his life motto too, fake it till you make it. She's that pliant body in his arms as he carries her to the old elevator, hoping it'll last another day.

When he reaches his apartment door, he shifts her in his hold, and she winces, a horribly pathetic little sound he hopes never to hear again. “Sorry,” he mutters as he fumbles for his key and unlocks the door. “You'll feel better soon, I promise.”

Her warm breath hits his neck as she presses her face closer against him, a strangely submissive gesture, a naive hope to trust a stranger. He takes her straight to the bathroom, where he sets her on the closed toilet lid and slowly unravels the blanket from around her. She's sitting perfectly still, the only movement coming from her almost curious eyes as she watches his every move. She winces when he brushes against the welts on her skin, chest rising and falling a little faster, but that's about all the motion he gets from her.

When the blanket falls away, she's that naked thing covered in sweat and cum and blood, and it occurs to him what a strange situation this is. For him to just take her away, without informing anyone, authority or not, and for her to just accept it like this. She's awake, maybe a little dazed, but conscious enough that a normal girl would stir more, talk more, fuss and strain against his touches, maybe even try to flee or do anything to ensure her own safety.

But she is just sitting there, arms folded behind her back, watching him. She doesn't seem real. Like a robot. A brainless toy... And it occurs to him, that might just be what she is, what she has been. A body to use, handed around between vulgar men, an object to utilize in their sick fantasies turned reality. Of course he's no stranger to the news, especially the darker ones, those about trafficking and forced sex work, even if those stories barely make it past the usual political drama. It's another one of those morbid fascinations he can't seem to break.

He might just be as sick as those actually partaking in these illegal little sex gatherings, he's watched those videos, even though he's handled them like any other porn he's come across. As fake, a scene played out, a fantasy made as real as movie magic can make it, but to find this girl in this room, discarded and abandoned like a broken doll, left behind after everyone else was done and satisfied in their twisted, primal needs, shows him that those were not scenes, not fake, but brutal reality. It makes him angry.

“Can you stand?” he asks her quietly, tilting his head as he towers over her, and she nods, looking up at him, before straining her bruised body when she tries to move. His hands find her elbows, and she flinches, but lets him pull her onto her feet. “Oh fuck, your arms, I forgot,” he presses out, and quickly leans back to grab a pair of scissors off the counter behind him, then carefully moves around her to cut through the ropes holding her wrists and forearms together. When he's done, he lets her go, and she sways, arms flailing a little, her hands twitching as if she wants to hold onto him. He guides her into the shower, then steps back. She turns around immediately, eyes wide. “Do you need help?”

She bites her swollen lip. “Please,” she croaks, and the hoarse sound of her voice breaks his heart (but also thickens his cock). He nods, swallows hard, trying to fight the strange warmth pooling in his stomach, before he toes off his boots, strips off his hoodie and jeans, then steps behind her in just his boxers. He wants to show her he's not a predator, but he also doesn't want to get his only good pair of jeans wet and dirty. One day he'll be able to afford another one.

He grabs the shower head and turns the knobs on the wall, waiting for the water to heat up. She's shivering, her frail little body so tiny in front of him, one hand rubbing up and down the other arm, a mindless gesture, trying to ease her nerves probably. Her eyes, however, stay on him and his every move, very attentive, almost eager. It should feel a little bit more bizarre to share a shower with a girl he's just met (or rather found), but it's as if he's running on instincts, feeling the need to help her, make her feel better, ease her pain.

The steam fills his nostrils, and when he puts the water jet to her shoulder, she winces, flinches away, lets out a little whine, but ultimately returns under the spray and lets him clean the grime and sweat and other substances off her skin. He's careful not to put too much pressure on her bruises and the welts, and is glad they didn't break her skin, even though they look horrible, shining in a bright red as if the blood is pulsing just beneath her pale skin.

When he lowers the shower head to point it between her thighs, he hesitates, looks at her, but all she does is take a little side step and spreads her legs a bit more to allow him to do so. So fucking obedient, it's almost scary. The grime on her inner thighs is so persistent that he has to move his hand over her skin before he realizes he should probably use a wash cloth. Stepping back, he leans around the open door and grabs a small towel, wets it and then proceeds to rub the dirt (and cum and other things he doesn't want to think more about) off her thighs. She whines quietly when he moves the soft cloth over her folds, and he holds his breath, trying to be as gentle as he can be.

When he touches her clit though, she shudders and gasps, legs trembling, and her hand is on his arm then, holding on tightly, with a strength he wouldn't have expected from her. He watches how her eyes roll back, how her lips part and a little moan escapes her, and he just freezes, wash cloth pressed to her sensitive nub, unintentionally drawing a strange little orgasm out of her. Was she trained to be this sensitive, so responsive? To come on touch alone? He didn't even rub that hard.

He takes the cloth away slowly, and she calms down a little, breathing just a bit harder, but when her eyes meet his, she furrows her brows, bites her lip, mumbles a croaked “Sorry” as she lowers her head. He frowns at that, tilting his head.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he says quietly. “I... uh, didn't mean to do that either...”

Is she one of those poor girls who was bound to their master's (or whatever the man called himself who had her) will, to only do as he told her, to come on command, and to feel bad if she does so without permission? What a horrible fate... He would never ask her to hold her orgasm, he would want to see that reaction over and over again, allowing her all the pleasure she can get. Not that he'll ever want to do anything to her, but... in theory, of course.

He keeps cleaning her then, lets the warm water soak her bruised skin, and she just stands there, chin tilted up, eyes closed, wet hair cascading down her back, hanging over her shoulders, one side shorter than the other (how cruel to take away something from her, even as benign as part of her braid, but it's definitely crueler to treat her like a soulless body, and he's glad she's not missing any fingers or limbs instead).

Considering, her state could be worse. She's standing on her own, breathing just fine, she's probably very sore and aching, but the pain will fade and she could have a normal life after this, more or less, not counting the psychological trauma that seems to still hold her hostage. Well, it's not ideal, and maybe death would have been a relief after the torment, but she's young, she can work through this, it's possible. And maybe he can help her cope...

Looking at her petite frame, he feels his stomach tensing. It's wrong to feel like this, he knows it, he shouldn't even allow the smallest little thought into that direction, but he is just a man after all, standing with a naked young woman in his shower, and it's blatantly obvious what his cock thinks about this whole situation. He hopes she doesn't notice the tent in his boxers.

But he shouldn't worry, she doesn't seem to notice much, standing still under the spray of the water, and when he turns it off eventually, deeming her clean enough, she inhales deeply and opens her eyes, blinking away stray water drops. She remains immobile, and while he turns to grab a towel, she doesn't move an inch. When he starts drying her off, rougher than he intends, but his hands feel like they are shaking from the tension growing inside him, she winces a couple of times, but then presses her lips together and endures.

He's watching her like a hawk, apologizes for accidentally hurting her, tries to be as gentle as possible, and her eyes are glued to his face, not completely focused yet, still glazed and hazy, pupils blown for some reason, her gaze almost curious. What a strange little creature. He'd expected a victim of whatever type of rape she's experienced to be more... hysterical?

When he finally wraps the towel around her small body and another one around her damp hair, she seems to relax even more. Then she opens her mouth.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispers, looking up at him before bowing her head.

He stares at her, blinking in confusion. “Uh, you're welcome,” he says. “But, uh, you can call me Sam, okay? I'm Sam. No need for... honorifics or whatever, you know?”

There's a frown on her face when she looks back up, her lips moving as if she's repeating his name in her mind.

“What's your name?” he then asks, leaning against the sink as he watches her.

The frown deepens, her eyes moving away from him, flickering here and there as if she tries to find the answer somewhere in his bathroom. “I...” she starts, eyebrows furrowed before she exhales deeply, her shoulders sagging. “It doesn't matter,” she then replies.

“Huh?” he makes, staring at her. “What do you mean it doesn't matter? I'm sure you have a name. Did you forget?” He kicks himself mentally for assuming as much and for his harsh tone, but it's ridiculous.

She shakes her head, not to say no, but to clear her mind maybe? It's a frantic gesture. “It doesn't matter. I don't matter. I am... I am yours to... to use,” she mutters under her breath, hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“What now?” He gapes at her.

And then she is suddenly on her knees in front of him, the towel falling away, her small body folded with her hands lying neatly on her lap, her chin tilted up, looking at him with big eyes. “Please use me,” she says quietly.

He takes a step back, bumping into the cupboard next to the sink, staring down at the girl. Is she serious? He shakes his head, then walks back and grabs her elbows. “Come on, get up, no need to kneel before me, okay? Get up!”

His harsher, also slightly agitated tone makes her wince, but she's on her feet immediately, letting him pull her up, then stands stock-still before him, head lowered, a soft little whine escaping her. “I'm sorry...”

“Stop apologizing!” He lets go of her and runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “I mean, ugh, wow. I'm sorry, too. You must be... well, you've been through so much, I don't mean to scare you or anything, I just...”

“Please,” she mumbles, breathing a little harder. She's shivering without the towel, the one on her head coming undone as well the more she shimmies on the spot. He stares at her, she has her hands clasped in front of her sex and squeezes her thighs together, small breasts squished, nipples erect, a deep blush almost hiding the red welts on her skin. “Please use me,” she then says again.

“No!” he blurts out, and she flinches, another sob escaping her. He groans. “I mean, come on! I will not just use you, I just met you, I found you! In that freaky sex room after you've been...” He stops when he suddenly meets her gaze. Her pupils are fully dilated, her already dark eyes shining entirely black. “You're in no condition to do anything but relax now, okay? Take it easy. Come on, I'll show you the bed.”

He's about to grab her hand when she turns her shoulder, avoiding his touch. He freezes, frowns. “In... no condition? Am I... not good... anymore?” Her voice is that feeble little hum, a desperate song sending shivers down his spine.

“What? No! You are good, you are perfect, you are so beautiful!” he croaks out, unable to stop the words. She tilts her head, blinking. “I mean, yeah, uh, you are, but that's not what I mean. You are... Look, whoever treated you like this, whoever hurt you, just left you there. And I couldn't not take you, you know? I want to help you, do you understand that? I want you to feel good again after –”

“Then use me,” she whispers, breathing harder, hands falling away from the obedient pose as she rubs them up and down her thighs, still squirming on the spot. “Please, it hurts...”

“Of course it hurts, they hit you with a fucking cane! They raped you!” he shouts, a little too loud, his emotions getting the better of him.

She flinches back, gasping with her lips parting, her eyes wide. “No... no, they were... they had to punish me because I... I was bad... I deserved it... and they... they used me like they should use me...”

Her words are mumbled, but he can still hear them, even though he wishes he couldn't. What a sick way of seeing things. What a fucked-up world where a pretty girl like her has these thoughts planted into her head.

Anger makes him clench his hands into fists. “They shouldn't have done that. You are a human being, a young woman, a beautiful girl, not a doll to play with, not a toy to use!”

She stares at him, eyelids fluttering, chest rising and falling faster, small breasts bouncing. Really not the time to notice that, mate!

“But,” she whispers, wincing slightly as she starts chewing on her lips. “But that... that's my purpose... I am... I am yours to use,” she repeats these last five words like something she had to learn without knowing the meaning behind it.

He approaches her slowly, carefully, his big hands find her small shoulders, and the touch makes her look up at him. “You are your own person. You have a name, even if you can't remember it right now, you had a mother and a father, maybe even siblings. You went to school, you had a job, maybe. You had dreams, everyone has dreams, for the future, things you wanted to have, places you wanted to see. You are not just a body for strange men to use. Not like that. Not without consent! You were not made to be punished, to be hurt because some random sicko gets off on it. Your body is so much more than just... holes to fill... and a canvas to soil with bruises and welts and... cum...”

His voice has become calmer, like a mantra, new thoughts to plant into her muddled brain, so he hopes, and she listens with her lips parted, eyes directly looking at him. Sometimes she frowns, sometimes she blinks, and when he finishes she licks her lips.

“But I want this,” she says quietly. “I want to be used...”

He sighs deeply and lowers his head, then shakes it in frustration. “No, somebody told you you should think like that! Nobody in their right mind wants to be raped and mutilated like that!”

A single sob makes him look up, and he lets go of her, straightening up. Her lips are trembling and her eyes watering before tears stream down her face. He lets out a groan.

“I'm sorry,” he grunts. “I didn't mean it like that! You are valid, whatever you want, of course, but... but you gotta agree it's a little strange?” She only cries harder, her small frame shaking. “Okay, look, no kink shaming or whatever, I just... I assumed, the way you were lying in that room, the state you were in, I thought you needed help! You looked horrible! I was about to call the police!”

She freezes at that, staring up at him. “No,” she gasps. “Don't do that! Please! I... I don't want any trouble... I... I'll do anything, but... please... not the police!”

He raises an eyebrow at that. This reaction surprises him. “Why not?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest. She averts her eyes, breathing harder. He isn't very fond of them either, but why wouldn't she? Why would she prefer being gang raped and beaten and strangled over calling for help?

She presses her lips together, doesn't say a thing. For a moment they are both silent, standing in the bathroom, the naked girl and the guy with his tented boxers. Even now his cock doesn't agree with him. But he doesn't care about it anymore. This is a mystery he wants to unravel.

“Tell me,” he says, tone harsher, pointedly. She seems to reply better to commands.

And it seems to work. “He said he'd kill me if I talked to them,” comes her quiet answer, spoken to the tiled floor.

“He? He who?” he asks, his arms falling to his sides.

“Sir,” she replies, her shoulders shaking.

“Sir? Who calls himself Sir? Who is that? The man who did this to you?”

She shakes her head. “No. He... he found me, he took me in, and then... he... he sent me away because I was... a bad girl and he... he... they...” A series of sobs escapes her before her hands fly up to cover her face. Her cries pierce his heart. “Why did he send me away? What did I do?” she wails softly, muffled from behind her hands. “I was a good girl... always a good girl... did everything he said...”

He can't watch it anymore. While his rage for this unknown man grips his insides, he steps forward and pulls her against him, arms wrapped around her shuddering form, but she keeps crying, lets it all out, desperate and heartbreaking. He scoops her up and carries her to the bedroom, her tears hot on his skin, her whines loud in his ears.

Putting her down carefully, he pulls the blanket over her naked body and tucks her in, gently rubbing her side as she curls in on herself, continuing to cry miserably.

“Please stop crying,” he whispers, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hand still on her hip. “I'm sorry he treated you like that. But he let you go, you said so, so why don't you use that as a chance to move on, look ahead, find a new Sir? Or live your life without any man for a while? I'm sure that's nice too...”

She stares at him from under her clumped lashes, momentarily paused in her sobbing, only to cry out again when he suggests moving on. He sighs, letting her wail and whine until hiccups shake her form. She's not calming down, but she gets quieter, and he stands up then, walking down the stairs into the kitchen to get some water and a snack. When he returns, she's lying on her side, staring blankly ahead, eyes reddened, face flushed and wet, but she's stopped crying for the moment.

He sits back down on the edge and holds the water glass to her face. “Come on, drink something. Please.” She doesn't even look at him. He exhales loudly and puts the glass on the bedside table. “Fine. Well, it's there if you want it. I also brought some crackers, maybe you're hungry. I can get more later. Or just sleep, you definitely need that. Rest, get better, and tomorrow we'll figure something out, okay?”

She doesn't give a reply, and he shakes his head and leaves again, settling on the lumpy couch under the stairs, his eyes drifting back up to the loft area every now and then. He falls asleep thinking it was probably a bad idea taking this girl with him. For his sake. What if she is so sick in the head she'll stand over him with a knife in the middle of the night? Great thought to slumber over, really.

1 🟢 2 🟢 3

End notes: *And this was the plot part of our story, stay tuned for the sex frenzy to begin in the next chapter!

There will be three chapters in total, I'll upload every Wednesday.

Thank you for joining me on another little original story I needed to get out of my system.

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

[rylem33]

A Dark Friday

It's a dark rainy Friday where I am. So I wrote this. I hope you enjoy! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The buzzing of Friday’s alarm jolted her awake. She reached over, silencing the noise with a clumsy swipe. 6:00 AM. Another early morning. She lay there for a moment, letting herself sink back into the quiet. It was one of those rare moments when everything seemed still, calm.

Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought, swinging her legs out of bed. Her body ached a little, but that was nothing new. She hadn’t slept much the night before—superhero work never did care about sleep schedules.

It had started with a petty crime—some guy trying to rob a corner store with a knife. Nothing too serious, but serious enough. She’d stepped in just in time, using her telekinesis to send the knife skidding across the floor before the guy even knew what hit him. The store owner had been grateful, offering her a free soda, which she’d declined with a polite smile. It was her duty, after all. Friday didn’t do it for rewards or recognition. She did it because it was right.

She was known. Well, the superhero version of her was known. Friday herself? She was just another face in the crowd. Just an average office worker, keeping her head down like everyone else. But when she put on the mask, that’s when things changed. People in her corner of the city called her the quiet hero. The one who did the right thing, even when no one was looking. No flashy powers, no big costume, nothing like the big names in the hero world. Just quiet telekinesis and a determination to keep people safe. And people respected her for it. They didn’t know who she was under the mask—didn’t know about the woman who filed paperwork and made small talk at the office—but they knew her work. That was enough.

Friday pulled on her work clothes, glancing in the mirror to make sure she looked… ordinary. That was key. No one at the insurance agency could ever guess she spent her nights stopping crimes. They’d just see the same woman they always saw—responsible, quiet, always on time.

A faint shiver ran down her spine as she finished getting ready. Something felt off this morning, but she brushed it away. It was probably nothing. It’s just one of those days.

She reached for her keys on the table but paused. She didn’t need to grab them manually—a little telekinesis would save the trouble. With a small flick of her fingers, she focused on pulling the keys toward her.

Instead of gently lifting off the table, the keys shot across the room like a bullet, smacking into the wall with a metallic clatter and dropping behind a cabinet.

“Ugh!” Friday muttered, hurrying over to fish them out. That definitely wasn’t supposed to happen. She crouched down, retrieving the keys from behind the furniture, her brows furrowed in confusion.

Weird.

She stared at the dent in the wall for a moment, then she grabbed her bag and headed for the door. 

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Friday sat at her desk, the soft hum of office chatter filling the background. Papers were stacked neatly in front of her, just the way she liked it. The morning was routine—email check, document review, small talk with co-workers about the weather. 

She glanced at the clock. 10:15 AM. She was running behind on a report, and the stack of papers in front of her wasn’t going to organize itself.

Or… maybe it could.

Friday quickly looked around the office. No one was paying attention—everyone was glued to their computers or deep in conversation. She let out a slow breath, then flicked her fingers under her desk, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she focused on the top stack of papers.

Just a little nudge. It’s harmless.

The papers shifted, lifting gently off the desk. Friday smiled to herself—easy. She guided the stack toward the edge of her desk, ready to settle it into a neat pile on the other side.

But instead of a smooth landing, the papers exploded. They scattered in every direction, flying wildly around the room like leaves in a windstorm. Several pages shot into the ceiling, a few fluttered to the floor, and one—please no—landed directly in her boss’s coffee cup across the room.

“Wha—what the—?” Her boss, Mr. Daniels, looked down at his soaked document in confusion, lifting it out of the cup with two fingers.

Panic flared in Friday’s chest. Oh no, no, no! She stood up abruptly, knocking her chair over with a loud clatter. Every head in the office turned to look.

“Whoops!” Friday blurted out, her voice too bright, too forced. “Sorry! I tripped!”

She bent down to pick up the chair, her face burning as she tried to collect the scattered papers. No one seemed to question it—most of them shrugged and went back to work, assuming she’d just been clumsy. But her heart was racing, and her hands trembled as she grabbed the papers.

Mr. Daniels glanced at her, eyebrow raised, but said nothing. He pulled the soggy paper out of his cup and shook his head before sitting back down.

Friday dropped into her chair, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips as she started gathering the rest of the papers from the floor. What is going on with my powers? They had never been this unpredictable. First the keys, and now this? She couldn’t afford to keep messing up like this, especially not at work. If anyone ever suspected she had powers… she didn’t even want to think about that.

She smoothed the papers back into a pile, forcing herself to breathe. Just get through the day. It’ll pass.

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Friday sat at the table with her co-workers, forcing a smile as they chatted and laughed about some office gossip. It was a typical lunch break—nothing out of the ordinary, and for a moment, she felt like she could relax. She waited for her salad, half-listening as Karen, from accounting, went on about her new puppy.

It was nice to unwind. After the chaos with the papers earlier, she needed a break. Everything felt normal again.

Until the server approached with their food.

Friday’s eyes drifted to the tray, and her stomach gave a small grumble. Karen’s burger. Juicy, perfectly cooked, oozing with cheese and crispy bacon. It looked so much better than her bland salad. Without thinking, she leaned forward a bit, her attention locked on the burger.

Suddenly, it slid an inch across the tray.

Her breath caught in her throat. Before she could react, the burger jerked again, this time more forcefully—right off the tray. The server stumbled, trying to catch the plate, but it was too late. Everything hit the floor with a crash, the tray clattering as fries, plates, and silverware scattered everywhere.

“Oh my God!” Karen gasped, jumping back as ketchup splattered across her shoes.

The entire restaurant seemed to pause for a second, the clatter of dropped plates echoing as people turned to see the commotion.

“I am so sorry!” the server stammered, kneeling down to clean up the mess, her face red with embarrassment.

Friday sat frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t moved a muscle. She hadn’t done anything. But that burger… she knew she’d pulled it toward her with her telekinesis. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut.

Her powers had acted on their own. She hadn’t even tried.

“Wow, bad luck,” one of her co-workers said, shaking her head at the mess. “You okay, Friday?”

“Y-yeah,” Friday managed to say, her voice sounding far away. She forced herself to smile, but inside she felt the panic rising. What just happened? This was different from earlier. This wasn’t just a small glitch. She hadn’t been thinking about using her powers at all, yet they’d taken over, as if drawn out by some stray desire.

Her heart was racing. She stared down at her salad, suddenly feeling sick. Something was very, very wrong.

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Friday sat back at her desk, trying to push the lunch disaster out of her mind. She just needed to focus. If she could stay focused, everything would be fine. The rest of the day would pass without incident, and whatever weirdness was happening with her powers would stop.

It has to stop, she thought, staring at the spreadsheet on her screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the numbers blurred in front of her eyes. She was too on edge, too anxious.

The office was filled with the usual afternoon energy. People were moving around, talking, making plans for the weekend. Her eyes drifted toward the break area, where Fred, the smarmy salesman, was leaning against the wall, his signature grin plastered across his face. He was talking to Janie from marketing, who looked more than a little uncomfortable as Fred made some joke she clearly didn’t find funny.

Friday scowled. Fred was always like this—overly flirty, never taking the hint. He’d been warned about his behavior before, but it didn’t seem to stick. She could feel the irritation building, her focus narrowing on Fred and his obnoxious smirk.

Suddenly, there was a loud tear. Fred froze mid-sentence, his face suddenly turning bright red as his pants ripped open at the seam, revealing his checkered boxers. Janie’s eyes widened, and a few nearby co-workers stifled laughter as Fred scrambled to cover himself with his hands.

“Uh… I think I’ll catch up with you later,” Janie said, quickly backing away.

Fred mumbled something unintelligible, his face still burning as he darted toward the restroom to fix the wardrobe malfunction. The laughter that followed him seemed to echo throughout the office.

Friday’s heart skipped a beat. Did I… just do that?

She glanced around, but no one seemed to notice her. Everyone was too busy laughing at Fred to even consider that it might have been anything more than a random accident. But she knew. Her powers had acted on that stray thought—without her even trying.

Her stomach knotted. Keep it together. Don’t let it get worse.

She turned back to her screen, trying to type, but her mind kept racing. As the minutes ticked by, small things kept happening.

Her phone buzzed with a notification, but the volume didn’t seem loud enough. She glanced at it, thinking about how annoying it was that she couldn’t hear it clearly, when the sound suddenly blasted to full volume, ringing out through the office. She jumped, slapping her hand over the phone to silence it, drawing startled glances from a few nearby co-workers.

“Sorry!” she squeaked, her face flushing.

A few minutes later, she overheard Megan from HR loudly complaining about some mistake in payroll. Megan had a habit of getting under Friday’s skin, her voice grating with every drawn-out word. Without even realizing it, Friday glared in her direction, wishing Megan would just… shut up.

And then she did.

Megan’s voice cut off mid-sentence, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Her face twisted in confusion as she cleared her throat and tried to speak again, but only a tiny squeak came out.

“Oh no,” Friday whispered, her stomach flipping. She stared at her hands, feeling the panic start to rise again.

Everything she wanted was just… happening. And it wasn’t stopping.

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Friday gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual as she drove downtown. Her mind raced, replaying the bizarre events of the day—Fred’s pants ripping, Megan losing her voice, the server at lunch dropping those plates. It was all too much to ignore now. Her powers were acting without her consent. Every stray thought, every fleeting desire was manifesting itself, and it was getting harder to control.

She took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. I just need to get home. I’ll figure this out later. Just keep it together until then.

As she switched lanes, the driver behind her honked aggressively, speeding up and cutting her off. Before she could stop herself, she felt a surge of anger. Her teeth clenched, and her grip on the wheel tightened even more.

Jerk, she thought bitterly, her eyes narrowing on the car that had just swerved in front of her.

The thought barely had time to register when, in the distance, she saw the car veer sharply to the right, the tires screeching as it suddenly swerved off the road and straight into a nearby pole. The sound of metal crunching filled the air, and Friday’s breath caught in her throat.

The car’s driver stumbled out, dazed but unharmed, waving off a few concerned bystanders. Friday’s pulse quickened, her heart pounding as she slowed down, passing by the wreck.

For a moment, she felt relief. The driver was okay—just shaken up—but a small part of her couldn’t help but think… They deserved it. They’d cut her off, after all. Maybe it was a little payback.

She felt a shiver of guilt crawl up her spine, but the satisfaction was still there, lingering like a whisper. That wasn’t me… was it? But deep down, Friday knew the truth.

It was her.

The car had crashed because she had wanted it to. Her powers, fueled by her irritation, had once again taken over. And this time, it wasn’t just a harmless prank or an embarrassing accident. It was real.

Friday’s hands shook slightly on the wheel as she drove the rest of the way toward downtown, the city’s towering buildings coming into view. She tried to push the unsettling thoughts away, to focus on her nightly patrol. I have to stay in control.

But the more she tried to bury them, the more they grew.

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

Friday walked the streets of downtown, her thoughts still stuck on what had happened earlier. She was patrolling out of habit, trying to keep her mind off everything that had gone wrong during the day. But it wasn’t working.

Her powers were slipping out of control, and that scared her. She needed to focus. Patrols usually helped with that. Tonight, though, the streets were quiet leaving her with her thoughts.

She glanced around as she passed under the dim glow of streetlights. A few people walked by, heading home after a long day, but nothing unusual. Nothing to distract her. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, trying to stay calm.

Then, she heard it.

A woman’s voice, sharp and panicked, cut through the stillness.

“Stop! Somebody help!”

Friday’s head snapped up. She followed the sound, breaking into a run. As she turned the corner, she saw it—a man sprinting down an alley, clutching a woman’s purse. The woman stood a few feet away, shouting after him, trying to give chase.

Finally, Friday thought, rushing toward the scene. Her powers kicked in almost instinctively. She focused on the purse, pulling it away from the thief with her telekinesis. It worked—too well.

The purse shot out of the man’s hands, but so did he. He slammed into the alley wall with a thud, collapsing to the ground, groaning in pain.

Friday froze for a moment, staring at the man slumped against the brick, his leg jutting out at an awkward angle. She hadn’t meant to hit him that hard.

The woman ran over, panting, eyes wide as she looked between Friday and the thief. “Oh my God, thank you! I don’t know what would’ve happened if—” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the man, barely moving on the ground. “Is he…?”

“He’s fine,” Friday said quickly, her voice flat. She tossed the purse back to the woman. “You should get out of here.”

The woman hesitated for a second, looking at the thief again, then nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered before hurrying off into the night.

Friday stood over the thief, her heart pounding. He was still conscious, groaning, reaching for his leg. He wasn’t seriously hurt, maybe a broken leg.  He definitely wasn’t walking away anytime soon.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She knew she should call for help, but something kept her rooted in place. The anger she’d felt when she saw him snatch that purse… she’d let it slip out, and her powers had acted on it.

But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it felt good.

He deserved it. He was a thief. He would’ve hurt that woman if she hadn’t stepped in.

Friday clenched her fists, taking a step back. Her powers had flared up, sure, but wasn’t that what they were for? Stopping people like him? She’d done the right thing. Maybe a little more forceful than necessary, but still.

She looked up, noticing a couple of people watching from across the street. Some seemed impressed, but others whispered to each other, uneasy.

It didn’t matter. She had handled the situation. The thief had been stopped. That’s all that mattered.

Without another word, Friday walked away, leaving the man on the ground. She didn’t feel guilty. If anything, she felt stronger. In control.

And for the first time all day, she didn’t care that her powers had gone too far. She liked it.

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

Friday walked aimlessly, her thoughts clouded with the chaos from earlier. She wasn’t sure why her feet had brought her so close to the police precinct, but there she was, hanging back in the shadows as a group of officers stood outside, chatting. She wasn’t patrolling out of duty anymore. It was more like she needed a distraction, something to drown out the noise in her head.

She heard one of the officers mention an accident. Her heart skipped. She moved closer, just enough to catch the conversation.

“Yeah, that guy from earlier? The one who crashed on Maple?” The officer’s voice was tense. “Turns out he’s one of ours. A cop. Good guy. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Friday froze. They were talking about the man she had pushed into that pole. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach.

“Yeah, and it was weird as hell,” another officer chimed in. “The guy says he doesn’t remember how it happened—just lost control out of nowhere. Some witnesses said his car swerved all by itself.”

The knot tightened.

“We’re gonna do a full investigation,” the first officer continued. “We think a supe might’ve been involved.”

Friday’s pulse quickened. A full investigation? They didn’t know it was her. They couldn’t know. But the fact that they were digging into it—it was only a matter of time before they started looking in the right places.

She turned to leave, ready to disappear into the night before things got worse, but one of the officers caught sight of her. “Hey! You there!”

Her heart sank. She was still in her mask, still in her patrol gear. They had no idea she was responsible for the crash, but they recognized her type—a superhero.

The officer walked toward her, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing hanging around here?”

“I was just…” Friday started, her voice trailing off as she tried to think of an excuse, her mind racing.

The officer snorted. “Typical. Another wannabe hero sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She shifted her weight, fighting the urge to walk away. Her powers simmered beneath the surface, her anxiety spiking with each second.

Another officer stepped forward, glaring at her. “We don’t need any help from a bunch of masked ‘supes.’ This city’s better off with real cops. People who actually know how to handle things.”

Friday’s jaw tightened. The tension in her chest built with every word they spat at her.

“Your kind thinks you’re above the law,” the first officer added, his tone sharp. “But guess what? We’re not gonna let a bunch of freaks run this city. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

Freaks. Trouble. The words rang in her ears, fueling the anger that had been building inside her all day.

She could feel it now—the worry about the investigation, the aggressive tone of the officers, the day’s frustrations—all pushing her closer to the edge. Her powers flickered, and for a moment, she thought about walking away. But she couldn’t.

“You think we need people like you?” the officer continued, stepping closer, his voice dripping with contempt. “You just get in the way. We handle the real problems. The real crimes. Stay out of it.”

That was it. The dam broke.

Before Friday could even register what she was doing, her telekinesis flared. The officer closest to her was suddenly thrown backward, slamming into the precinct wall with a heavy thud. His body crumpled to the ground, dazed.

The other officers reacted instantly, but Friday didn’t stop. The second officer lunged toward her, but she flung him back, sending him skidding across the pavement.

Panic surged through the crowd as other officers scrambled for cover, shouting into their radios. Backup was being called. The precinct buzzed with chaos.

But Friday wasn’t scared anymore. She felt angry.

“Stay out of it?” she muttered under her breath, her voice low. She glanced around, her powers crackling in the air. With a flick of her mind, she sent nearby objects flying—trash cans, parked bikes, even a police car shifted slightly on its wheels.

“You don’t need my help?” she said louder this time, her heart racing. “Fine. Let’s see how well you handle this without it.”

Another officer stepped forward, trying to talk her down, his hands raised in surrender. “Listen, we don’t want any trouble—”

But she didn’t listen. A surge of power erupted from her, shoving him backward like the others. Glass shattered as he hit the windows of the precinct. She could hear shouts inside, radios buzzing, but it only fueled the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

For the first time all day, she wasn’t trying to control it. She was letting go.

The police couldn’t stop her. No one could. And for the first time, that felt good.

As the chaos swirled around her, Friday turned and walked away, her footsteps steady and her mind clear. She didn’t care about the investigation anymore. She didn’t care about what came next. The worry that had gnawed at her all day was gone, replaced by something stronger.

This was power.

And she wasn’t holding it back anymore.

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Friday sat at a table in the back of the dimly lit restaurant.  She was alone in a secluded area, enjoying the meal in front of her. Gone were the days of restraint, of second-guessing every action. Now, she did what she wanted, when she wanted, without the endless loop of moral questioning. Consequences didn’t matter. They were for the weak, for the people who hadn’t yet realized the thrill of truly letting go.

She twirled her fork slowly, savoring the bite she’d just taken. Her powers had blossomed in the weeks since she’d stopped holding back, growing stronger, sharper. She could feel it humming beneath her skin at all times now, always there, always ready. It wasn’t something to control anymore—it was simply a part of her.

A faint smile crossed her lips as she leaned back in her chair, the warm taste of her meal still lingering on her tongue.

But just as she was about to enjoy another bite, a voice broke through the quiet.

“Boss… sorry to interrupt.”

Her hand froze mid-motion. The fork hovered near her lips as she turned her head slightly. A henchman, one of the low-level lackeys she’d picked up since embracing her new life, stood nervously by the table.

She didn’t look at him.

“I told you,” she said softly, her voice smooth but laced with threat, “I don’t like to be interrupted.”

“I know, but—”

Before he could finish, she flicked her fingers.

With a thought, his body crumpled to the ground. It was almost too easy now, barely an effort at all. He gasped, his breath leaving him as he curled into a heap at her feet, limbs twisted awkwardly. His face contorted in pain, but he didn’t dare scream.

Friday didn’t move. She didn’t even glance at him as she slowly set her fork back down on the table. Her focus returned to her plate, the food that had lost its warmth thanks to the intrusion. The audacity.

“I was enjoying that bite,” she murmured, as if speaking more to herself than to him. Her tone was calm, unbothered by the sight of him writhing in agony on the floor. She let him suffer for a moment longer, savoring the power that came so easily to her now.

After a beat, she finally spared him a glance. “Now, tell me. Was it worth ruining my meal?”

He gasped, struggling to form words. “No… no, I—”

Another flick of her hand, and his body eased just enough to breathe again. She wasn’t finished with him yet.

“Good.” She leaned back, her eyes cold. “You’ll heal.  Next time, think before you come running to me.”

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink, watching quietly writhe on the floor.  Another henchman watched from across the room but dared not interfere.

The interruption over, Friday picked up her fork again, lifting the next bite to her lips. She smiled, savoring the taste, the power, the complete control over everything around her.

This was her world now. And nothing—no one—could stop her.