#a lot of what i say or think is stolen words. maybe half stolen from games

[midnightclover]

4 11 and 15 for the ask game? :3

4... see, the most important part of a fishing minigame isnt the minigame itself, but the rest of the game around it. so this is kinda difficult. id mention a bunch of examples but.. it got kinda long, so lets skip to the punch, yah?

a short hike has the best fishing minigame ive seen. the minigame itself is simple, just mash a, and it's hard to fail, but the fun comes in with trying to find out where each type of fish lives.. you end up trying every little spot of water on the island, and finding rarer and rarer variants! its just a fun time (also once you find one of each fish you can talk to the fisherman on the boat and get a gold fishing rod which finds rare variants easier)

11. favourite berry? hm... raspberry. kinda close between raspberries and blackberries

15. a quote from a game that lives rent free in my head.. theres quite a few to pick from. i'm not sure what to choose.

ah how about this? even though it's been ages since i've played it, i still occasionally have himiko from fucking danganronpa v3 in my head going "Nyehh...."

[lovebugism]

Hi bug!

For the domestic prompts,

#12 with Eddie?

thank u for requesting lovie! hope you like it! — you and eddie are friends with benefits, but he wants something more. you don't realize that you do, too, until he wants to see other people (fwb, idiots in love, angst, mentions of smut 18+, 1.7k)

fictober leftovers (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Sticky and still twisted in the sheets, Eddie reaches out for you.

His fingertips dance across the slick skin of your shoulder, just barely. You pull away like you always do — sluggish and dismissive, like it’s instinct to deny yourself of his affection. And even though it isn’t the first time you’ve rejected his softness (not nearly, not even half), it still aches the same.

Eddie laughs it off like he’s always had to. It’s easier that way.

“Wanna go get food, at least?” he asks with a soft chuckle. The color of the boyish sound matches the faint yellow glow of your bedside lamp — golden.

With your eyes still closed, weighed down by the post-sex honey, you shake your head into the pillow. “No, I’m good,” you mumble, then writhe and stretch beneath the blanket like a cat. 

Your eyes flutter open in time to catch the pained look on Eddie’s face. His features are blurry with bliss and exhaustion, screwed slightly like he’s flinching from your words.

“I can’t really feel my legs right now, so…” you joke with a quiet smile instead of telling him that no, you can’t go out to eat because that’s basically a date, and that’s not what this is. You think you’ve repeated that spiel enough for a lifetime.

Eddie knows this, but he appreciates that you care enough not to hurt his feelings.

A crooked grin tugs at his swollen pink lips. His pale legs swing over the side of your bed as he reaches for his boxers, left forgotten on the floor with the rest of your clothes. He stands to tug them up his hips again.

“Well, you wouldn’t happen to have any food in the kitchen, would you?” he wonders, glancing at you over his shoulder. His chocolate eyes twinkle when he flashes you a teasing grin. “Something other than chips and mac and cheese, preferably.”

“I think I have some leftover takeout in the fridge,” you answer with an absentmindedness that Eddie’s gotten used to by now. You care about him, but only so much, and not enough to make a big deal about any of it.

“Ah, leftovers,” Eddie repeats with a whimsical sigh. “The epitome of romance.”

You snort a faint laugh and prop your cheek on your fist. “Well, I’d cook for you, but I wouldn’t wanna give you the wrong idea.”

“Hey. C’mon. I’m, like, Feminist Numero Uno, alright? I’d happily be your housewife—” He cuts himself off with a laugh when you reach for a pillow. He flinches when you half-heartedly swat him with it.

“That’s what I’m talking about! We’re not dating, Eddie!” you say with a sweet laugh that only halfway lessens the blow of your words. “You’re not my housewife— you’re not my anything!”

You have to remind him of that a lot. He has these moments, where he wants to get all sweet and cuddly and play boyfriend with you. As far as you’re concerned, the affection is supposed to stop when your clothes are on. That line’s a whole lot blurrier for Eddie.

He doesn’t know when he’s supposed to stop loving you because he loves you all the time.

The stinging returns. There’s a million crackling orange embers in his chest, where he’s pretty sure his heart is supposed to be. You’ve stolen it, though, with no intentions of returning it. Eddie’s happy to let you keep the wretched, bleeding organ of his. He likes that you’re holding it. Even though your nails are digging crescent shapes into the delicate thing.

“Right,” he murmurs, then clears his throat when his voice breaks. “Yeah.”

“Maybe instead of eating my stale leftovers, you call Chrissy and invite her out to dinner?” you offer with an absentminded shrug, turning onto your stomach and kicking your feet up behind you. Your legs poke out from beneath the thin sheet, showing the faintest sliver of your ass. 

Eddie takes great care not to look at you. You’re so pretty it hurts — hurts ‘cause he can’t have you.

“I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

Eddie thinks for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. Maybe. ’S probably a better idea, huh?”

This isn’t the first time you’ve teased him about Chrissy. She’s the prettiest waitress at Benny’s Burgers — hell, all of Hawkins, even — and she’s crazy sweet on him. Any other day, he’d argue back and forth with you about it. “She doesn’t like me,” he’d tell you, “She doesn’t even exist to me when you’re around.”

No, this isn’t the first time you’ve brought up Chrissy, but it’s the first time he isn’t detested by the sheer thought of being with anyone other than you.

You falter. Just for a moment. “I mean, duh— all my ideas are better than yours.”

“You really won’t be mad if I take Chrissy on a date?” Eddie asks you, bending at the waist to tug his black ripped jeans over his long, pale legs. His chocolate eyes twinkle with expectancy. He wants so badly for you to say yes.

You won’t humor him with any of that, though. 

“‘Course not. We’re not dating, so… I don’t really have a reason to get mad.”

Distantly heartbroken, he nods. “Okay. Good.”

“It might be better, actually,” you confess, trying hard not to stare too long at his happy trail when his milky white hands button his pants. “You know, if we both start seeing other people.”

Eddie freezes. “What? Like— breaking up?”

“Well, there’s no breaking up involved.”

“Right… ‘Cause you’re not my girlfriend.” 

The words taste like vinegar leaving his mouth.

They shouldn’t sting you like they do. 

You try to smile, anyway. “Exactly. Look at you, Eds— You’re finally getting the hang of it.”

“So, what? I see Chrissy, and you see…?” he trails off, turning away from you to search for the Metallica t-shirt he wore on the way over. He finds it on your bookshelf, likely from where he’d flung it over his shoulder in an attempt to make you laugh.

“I don’t know. I guess, I can see if Steve’s free. He’s usually a reliable fuck.”

Eddie glances at you, doe eyes narrowed. He’s trying to analyze you — to gauge whether or not you’re being genuine or if you’re bringing up your ex to hurt him. Maybe it’s both. It’s sort of what he’s doing to you now, anyway.

He’s only half as genuine as he is angry about the whole thing, but he’ll burn alive before he lets you see how furious it makes him feel.

He scoffs a bitter chuckle and tugs his shirt over his head. “Well, have fun with King Steve, I guess.”

“As long as you have fun with the princess,” you tease with too sweet grin.

“Oh, I’m sure I will.” 

That’s all he says — in the place of any real goodbye. Most times, he refuses to leave your apartment until he’s smothered you in a thousand kisses. He hopes the lack of him makes you ache, that you’re grieved by his leaving just as much as he is.

You are, but you won’t let him know it.

You know you won’t have any fun without Eddie. You’re praying he won’t have any fun with Chrissy either — lest he falls for her and her pretty eyes and how kindly she treats him. But fuck, he deserves that. He deserves someone who doesn’t have a physical aversion to affection. He deserves a whole lot more than you.

He should go out to meet Chrissy, but you stop him before he’s got his hand on the rusted doorknob to leave.

“Eds, wait!” you call from the bedroom, plucking his leather jacket from the back of your desk chair and running into the living room with the thin top sheet clutched to your chest.

The boy turns around, eyes as wild as his hair. In a fleeting moment of irrational hope, he thinks you’re about to ask him to stay — to eat your leftovers with him and let him love you. But then he sees the jacket in your fist and tries to ignore the searing knife you’ve plunged into his chest.

“Can’t forget this,” you tease with a glimmer in your eye. “Cheerleaders dig the leather jacket, you know?”

Eddie squints when he takes it from you. His sly, halfway-forced smirk matches your own. “And how would you know that?”

“I don’t. It’s just a feeling.”

“Okay,” Eddie nods as he slides the jacket over his shoulders and arms. “That’s fair, I guess. Thanks for looking out.”

“‘Course,” you shrug, all nonchalant about the whole thing. You’re kissing the breath from his lungs a second later, leaning forward to knock your nose with his and smother his plush pink mouth with your own.

Eddie freezes, shocked by the sudden act of affection. 

You were never one for goodbyekisses — “That’s for people who’ve been together for two months or two decades, Eds,” you’d giggle while he’d sprinkle pecks to your nose, mouth, and cheek. “Not for people who only meet up to fuck.”

You’d always been more to him than that, but it hurt you never saw him any different.

But here you are now — kissing him stupid and staining his tongue with your taste before he’s shoving it down Chrissy Cunningham’s throat. You want him to taste you all night. You want him to remember you even when you’re not there. Because god knows this asshole’s gonna be on your mind all night.

You pull back from him after a few long moments, with swollen lips and heavy eyes. You trap your smile between your teeth and wrap your arms around yourself, keeping the sheet bunch up there even though he’s seen you in much, much less.

“Call me later, and let me know how it goes, yeah?”

Eddie, gone sufficiently dumb after being kissed so ardently, just nods for several agonizing seconds. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. Whatever,” he babbles with a rosy, freshly kissed mouth.

You turn on your heel and head back to your bedroom. Even when you disappear behind the shut door, Eddie stands in place — like he’s waiting for you to come back out and do the charade all over again.

The shower faucet hisses faintly. It knocks him from his daze, tells him he’d better take the pieces of you when he can get them instead of constantly sitting in wait for them.

On his way home, he tries to remember Chrissy Cunningham’s phone number. He knows there’s a six in the beginning, a three somewhere in the middle, and two sevens towards the end. 

He can’t think straight anymore.

You’re on his mind, on his mouth, and on his fingers.

There’s no use in thinking about anything but you.

[al-of-the-stars]

poly vees! poly vees! where everyone loves eachother

anyways, the vee's find themselves attracted to an imp!reader (maybe only one or two at first). i love the upper class x lower class dynamic ajhs

the imp was originally just trying to be a thief in peace and rob them, but they get caught in the process.

gn! reader is more desirable but you can go for a fem or male reader if you want!!

-🍋 anon

"Stole our hearts. (and our money lol)"

A/n: Hi, 🍋! This reminded me a bit of Blitzo and Stolas from Helluva Boss lol Ik I said this before but I'm not too familiar with poly relationships so I'm so sorry if I got anything wrong! I did gn reader but I did mention reader wearing one of Velvette's dresses so I hope it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable! Hope you enjoy!!

Imps were never respected in the hell hierarchy. How ironic that the ones who fucked up enough to get sent here are treated better than the innocent demons who never even got a chance at life in the first place. This was the reason you decided to become a thief. If no one was willing to hire the lowlife so that you could make an honest living, you would steal to live a comfortable life. You weren't a Saint by any means but you weren't evil enough to steal from your own kind, only people who either deserved it or people who could afford to be stolen from. That includes overlords, and more specifically, your latest victims, the Vees. They were known for their social influence on the residents of hell, but you didn't really care much since overlords only live in the pride ring and imps usually residents in Imp City in the wrath ring. That, however, doesn't mean you won't travel there and take their shit. You were currently at Vee Tower late at night. Everyone was asleep so you had the perfect chance to do your job and quickly scurry off, or at least that's what you thought, You usually work fast but that doesn’t take into account the time constraint of Vox’s new security system. The moment you touched the vase, a loud alarm rang and a few seconds later, Vox and his tired partners came up to you. 

“What do you think you're doing,” Vox said, his business smile faltering. Shit. You underestimated this guy's inventions. “Oh.. uhhh..” you were at a loss for words. What were you even supposed to say? ‘Hey I was about to steal this vase that you own’? Absolutely not. Luckily for you, they didn't seem to mind as much as you thought they would. Little did you know that every time you had stolen from the Overlords, they had known you were there. Although they didn't exactly appreciate you stealing their belongings, they had taken a bit of a liking towards you. Even when being mischievous little shit, you still had a sort of charm. Like when you were stealing one of Vox's newest prototypes and spent 10 whole minutes trying to figure out what it did before giving up and furiously putting it in the bag. Or that time you stole one of Velvette's dresses and before putting it in the bag you put it on, just for funsies. She had to admit, you didn't look half bad in her designs, maybe when you finally date them, she can ask you to model for her. And the time you tried to steal one of the blankets from one of Val's studios, which surprisingly sell for a lot. You hurriedly put it in the bag, trying to touch it as little as possible, who knows what things people had done in those blankets. They slowly fell for you one by one, maybe next time, they can finally ask you out. Once they give you the world, you finally won't have to steal their things.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Knock knock, whos there?

A reader who's very sad at how empty the Ftm Reader X Jason Todd tag is.

Can we get something sweet between the two of em? Maybe just something depicting a slow morning? Thank you if so, <3 Im longing for more food.

-🐊🪶

Jason Todd x FTM reader

Headcanons

Im basing the readers experiences off of myself, so it may not fit all trans readers and what they’ve gone through. I also gave them pet cats, because I love cats. The reader being trans doesn’t fill much of this, since it doesn’t effect their relationship a lot, but I hope you still like it.

On days where there we no plans, no druglord word, no Red Hood or batfam work, and you had time off from your job or classes, Jason and you liked to take it slow.

The two cats Jason had found on patrol one night laying splayed out on the bed like they owned the place. One was a very large tomcat with big puffy cheeks, even after being neutered, the second cat was smaller, scrawnier but so very long. They had smartly been named Tomcat and Longcat by Jason.

On days where you two liked to sleep in, you could find yourselves being awoken by the beautiful sound of Longcat yowling like was dying, because neither of you had filled their bowls on time. Tomcat was a big baby, but liked you more than Jason, so the moment Jason gets up to feed Longcat his spot is stolen.

Since he’s already up and his spot had been stolen by a cat the size of a medium sized dog, Jason just decides to start going about his day. He ends up finding outfits for you two for the day, and if you wear a binder hell ask if you want to wear one today or not.

Your handsome partner always gives you a kiss before leaving the bedroom, Tomcat tries to get in the way though. It just results in Jason giving Tomcat a bit smooch too, which the cat just wags his tail at.

You’ll keep lying in bed for maybe another 15 minutes, just snuggling with Tomcat and listening to the sound of Jason taking his shower and brushing his teeth, sometimes at the same time. Longcat is meowing the entire time of course, thinking that Jason is drowning.

You let Jason finish up before getting up, tucking Tomcat in after getting up as you should, before going about your own routine. After your shower you stand and airdry for a while if you have to put on a binder, since you can’t pull those on with damp skin.

This is where youll stand half asleep and brush your teeth, Tomcat and Longcat both watching you, one from the tub and one from on top of the toilet. Its also where Jason likes to come up behind you and just hug you as he buries his face into your neck for a bit.

The morning hug and kiss is needed for his day to go well, that’s what Jason says anyways. If he doesn’t get a kiss from you then his whole day is doomed to go badly in one way or another.

He makes sure to hug you before you apply your T gel if you use that, since he knows he isn’t allowed to touch you after applying it. Hes also an expert at helping you inject T if you need it, and you do it from home. Or if your injection point is still aching from your last injection, then Jason is your guy in making it feel better.

If you’re a breakfast person you two will go into the kitchen to make something. On days like this, Jason can be tempted to make a bigger for complicated breakfast. Most days breakfast is an easy and quick affair though.

Longcat is of course still meowing for treats, acting like he hasn’t been fed and like hes still a streetcat living on scraps. Tomcat is just your big hovering shadow, watching from the doorway into the kitchen with his tail neatly curled around his front paws.

You two end up just eating breakfast on the couch as you watch whatever you two can find, though its most likely a comfort show or movie, something you two have watched many times before.

Jason takes the empty bowls or plates into the kitchen before coming back, so you two can cuddle some more as you’re both still quite tired after Longcats very loud awakening.

Jason never minds what you wear or how you wear it, as long as youre comfortable, so you being trans doesn’t really make any difference in your guy’s mornings together. Just what Jason finds for you to wear, and if your hormone treatment makes any differences.

It’s very hard not to fall back asleep on the couch, especially as Jason pulls you to his chest and wraps a blanket around you both.

Tomcat and Longcat obviously quickly join you, both of the cats curling up in whatever nook and cranny they can find and purring up a storm, making both you and Jason more and more sleepy.

You both don’t mind that you fall back asleep on the couch together, since there’s nothing planned for the day, and what’s playing on the tv is something you both know front to back. It just feels nice to be able to let go and drift off again together, even if it’s not in bed.

[dirtylittlefairytales]

Don't play with fire | - Part 2 - |

Autors Note: I recommend to read Part 1 first. This is going to be a rollercoaster, but I hope you like it. I liked writing it and I'm really happy I started writing again. Now I try writing smut too. If you like the song 'Unholy from Sam Smith' listening to it later on, made the scene better. At least I listened to it while I wrote the scene.

Also as before, english is not my first language, I hope I corrected most mistakes.

Summary: After having a panic attack and realizing that Cooper could be the Butcher., you tried living your life normally again, until you got a text from an unknown number. Should you go to the police? Half a year later everything is normal again, at least you think it is.

-> Writing in 'italic' is supposed to be the your thoughts

Warnings: Dark!Fic, Describing of a Panic attack, Age Gap! (Legal), Swearing! Praise! Alcohol consumption!, drugs!, bit of Smut, Angst!, Arguing

Rating: R

Word count: 7,4k

Tagging: @a-movie-that-youve-never-seen, @amethystblackkchaos, @hereforthehitsbaby, @waywardtigersandwich

That was your first panic attack you had in your life. You spend that day at the hospital, your mom picking you up in the evening. She didn’t pry for information, although she was very worried. When you got back to her house and sat in the living room over a hot tea, you told her everything– Though more like everything she could know.

You told her about the concert, how you weren’t feeling well because of the crowd of people. So you went home early, then your bike got stolen and your boss fired you after some nasty words. You said you didn’t know how you ended up at the hospital, you were just aimlessly walking and then woke up in the hospital. Remembering a lot of concerned voices around you but nothing more. 

Seeing that you were near tears again your mom started to hug you for several minutes. You let it all out. All those bottle up emotions of the day. You just didn’t know what to do with all these emotions. It was too much, like you weren’t in control anymore.

“You know sweety, you should move closer again. Ah no disagreeing! Think about it. You know my grandparents also had their apartment. Please consider it, I worry about you.” she said, squeezing your shoulders. “You could save so much money!”

“Okay mom. I promise I’ll think about it, but not today. Let me find a new job first.” you tried avoiding the situation. She nodded

“Well, come one you can sleep in your old room today. Tomorrow I'll drive you to the mechanic so you can get your car back.”

“Thanks mom.”, she kissed the top of your head and pushed you towards the stairs. Shaking your head, you went up towards your old room. You could barely say no to anything, when it came to your mom. However, moving back was the one thing you didn’t want. It was stupid. You wanted to live independent and not in your moms apartment, where she probably wouldn’t even allow you to pay rent.

Stepping inside your room, everything looked as you last remembered it. Your mom tried to make it look like your old room. The big double bed near the window, with the one teddy bear on it. A small wooden closet near the wall. You closed the curtains on the window and went to bed. 

On the bathroom mirror you could see a bruise starting to form on your shoulder, where Cooper had gripped it. Clearly you couldn’t wear something without sleeves the next few weeks. 

Before going to sleep you checked your phone. You nearly forgot about it. There was nothing. No new contact, no number saved anywhere, everything was the same. You remember it clearly, he told you he had saved his number, but nothing. You checked your phone completely. Looked through everything, photos, deleted messages, deleted contacts. Still nothing.

‘Had he just been toying with you? Playing into your anxiety?’ After checking your phone for a second time you gave up. Maybe you imagined it, maybe you should just call it a day. As soon as you put your phone down and your head hit your pillow you were out. The events of that day were finally catching up with you. 

Waking up the next day, you still felt exhausted but overall better. True to her word, your mom drove you to the mechanic, and reminded you to visit her once a week like you promised her on her last birthday. No more work excuses. 

You promised, she was getting older and you did want to spend more time with her. She turned 59 this year. You loved her, she always did her best. Recently your grandfather passed away, leaving everything to your mom. Your grandparents had an estranged relationship with your mom, but seeing as she was their only child… she inherited it all. Now your mom could live without worries. She had a house and had a spare apartment. Seeing as they did have a bit of money.

Over the next week you wrote more job applications and went to a couple of interviews. Until you finally found yourself a new job. The company and boss seemed nice and you even got to work from home 10 days a month. Big plus and the pay was decent. You stayed in your apartment most of the time after the concert, fearing you might run into Cooper somewhere. You were quite paranoid. Fearing what he would do to you. Were you going to be next, if he was the Butcher? 

With the new job, came new energy and you started to live again. Step by step you were going outside, to the office, meeting your friends or going out for drinks. Still sometimes, you looked around you. Feeling like someone was staring holes in your back.

The second panic attack came when on a day you were working from home. A few weeks had passed and overall it started like a totally normal day, just a few calls. Not much work to do that day and around lunch time you still wore your pajamas. When you went into the kitchen to cook, you suddenly got a text message from an unknown number. First you thought it was someone from work. Though, the number didn’t seem familiar, so maybe it was a customer? However, none had your private number. You opened the message and instantly knew who sent that text.

–You should watch the news. Unfortunately I must tell you that Spencer didn't seem to be very grateful. Sorry to disappoint you sweetheart. –

You dropped your phone, heart pounding in your chest. ‘Sweetheart– Was that Cooper? So he did have your number… Why should you watch the news?’ Slowly you crept down, picking up your phone from the floor and almost dropping it again. Your hands trembled so much. 

After releasing a shuddering breath, you put your phone in your pocket and stepped towards your living room. One step at time, fearing you might fall if you walked too fast. Holding on to your sofa for dear life, you reached for the remote. 

Turning on the TV, unsure of what you would find, you switched programs until you found the news channel. Your hands still trembling, you took deep breaths trying to calm yourself.

‘Maybe you should sit down?’ – Letting yourself fall onto the sofa you turned up the volume. You saw a lot of police in the background then view switched to the reporter, who started speaking

“Yesterday in the early hours, two hikers found something horrible on their daily hiking trail. We waited for further information from the police and we can now announce that the Butcher has found yet another victim. This marks the 13th victim of the Butcher.”

Your knuckles around the remote turned white from anticipation, your fingernails digging in your own palm. ‘Maybe you should stop with the acrylic nails’ You held your breath. They showed a photo of a young man on the screen. It wasn’t someone you knew.

“The victim seems to be a young man named Spencer–” Spencer.. That was the name he told you that day. You didn’t even listen to the rest of the news. Completely blending everything out, thoughts racing in your head. A sob escaped you, your whole body shook uncontrollably. Gasping for air, crying, you had your second panic attack. It felt even stronger then the first one, but maybe it was only because you were more aware now. 

A part of you felt like you killed Spencer. You had thought he was just playing with your fear. It was your fault. ‘What have you done… you were right all along. Your sixth sense didn’t leave you. Why haven't you gone to the police? Were you an accomplice now? Why haven’t you told somebody? You could have saved him…’ The answer was simple. You hadn’t been 100% sure. Hell until now you thought you imagined most of his weird behavior, were overthinking it, writing it off as anxiety.

Helplessly you wandered around towards your kitchen in the search for a bag. When you finally found one, you sank down against your cupboard. Taking deep breaths with the plastic bag to calm your breathing. After calming down and just sitting silently in your kitchen for 20 minutes, you got up and shut down the TV.

‘You couldn’t go to the police, could you? What if they held you responsible for it because you didn’t say anything until now. You didn’t even know his last name or where he lived.’ 

A dry and humorless laugh escaped you. Putting your face in your hand, trying to come to terms with reality. Finally you pushed your hair back and grabbed your phone.

Pondering if you should write back? Try to get information from him and go to the police? Could you get burned even more? Thinking for another minute you decided against it. Panic and anxiety controlled your actions. Your course of action was going in the complete opposite direction. Simply deleting the message. Deleting the evidence, deleting a small part of your guilt– ‘out of sight out of mind’

You didn’t continue work that day, called in sick, went to bed and just stared aimlessly at the ceiling. Thinking about everything. About the concert, about every small detail you remembered. All the strange things you thought he did, but in the end you thought it was just your imagination. 

This was so fucked up, why were you still alive and not locked up in some basement? Why were you still alive? He knew that you knew. By sending you that text, it almost seemed like he wanted you to know. It hardly made any sense to you. After hours and hours of thinking and getting a headache from it, you fell asleep rather exhausted.

Not even a day after you even changed your number, telling your friends and mom another lie. The excuse, you got too many spam calls on it, seemed to be good enough. You were that anxious that you were one step away from moving back into your mom's house. However you didn't want to exaggerate.

Everything you did, to feel secure didn’t help. The anxiety remained. Whenever you went outside you felt like a scared mouse, always looking around, getting in your car and inside the office building as quickly as possible. At first you looked for a black van, then you remembered that stupid little you had the great idea to reveal to him what the profiler said. Of course he was not driving that van anymore. Perhaps now he drove around in a girly pink car.

‘How could you have been so stupid?’, you wanted to bang your head against the table. You even judged Lady Raven for her naivety and here you were telling the Butcher what car to not drive. What to look out for. You helped him even further, by not going to the police. He must have been laughing at you in his head. What a fucking joke. He also must have realized what effect he had on you, using that for his advantage. That for one you found him attractive, on the other hand you were intimidated by him. You were glad you were still alive, but it also made you nervous.

A month later and nothing new from the Butcher and no strange occurrences you finally started to relax again. Cooper and all that happened was slowly being pushed to the back of your head. 

Furthermore, you moved out of your apartment. You felt spooked and unsafe in it. Living near your mom again gave you a small aspect of security back. Fortunately your workplace had a second office 20 min from your mom's apartment. You rented some transporter and with the help of your friends you moved your stuff into your new apartment within a day. Moving out helped your anxiety a lot.

Another month later, you started to go out with your friends again, didn’t look around every time you left your apartment and became more yourself. Feeling confident. You were slowly going after your hobbies again. Running outside, Swimming, visiting your favorite coffee shop or reading in the park on a good day. All without turning around every few seconds. 

Before you knew it about half a year had passed and it all was a mere memory. You hadn’t had another panic attack in months. Your job was great, you met your friends a lot, also visited your mom every week and you could even listen to music with noise canceling headphones again. It felt normal. Back to how it was before. There was no news from the Butcher. No new Butcher victims, just some mom in a horrible car crash, but aside from that there was just the usual news. 

It was around January, a Saturday, your birthday to be exact, where it began to get strange again. Even though it started out as every other birthday since you were 21. First brunch with your mum, having some good quality time in your favorite restaurant. After that, you went home again and around the evening your friends should arrive to go out. You should be around 10 people later. Normally you would just celebrate at home, but your best friend Simon wanted to party. Who were you to deny his wishes?

You had been Besties for ages, growing up with the same situation of a cheating parent, pushed you even closer together. It was only after high school where you went in different directions. Simon wanted to study, whereas you started working. There he met his better half Sebastian, they’ve been together ever since and when the three of you did something together they treated you like their child. Which you found hilarious. You loved them.

So a couple of friends were coming over and around midnight you would go dancing. When you arrived back at your apartment you noticed something strange. There was a small gift in front of your door. You looked around if you saw any of your neighbors before picking it up and unlocking your door. 

It didn’t seem to have a name anywhere. ’Strange. Maybe it was from that elderly woman on the first floor?’, you wondered. You put it on your kitchen counter, saving it for later. Seeing as you had only a couple of hours left to clean and dress up. Also you needed your makeup done before simon came, or he would go way overboard with his ideas. You already agreed to let him do your hair and change your outfit, if it was “too boring”. 

That was another reason he wanted you to go out. Maybe you would finally find prince charming and you could go on cute double dates.  In his opinion, your ‘no dating’ phase had been going on too long. Looking at yourself in the mirror you felt good. You decided to go with some short black pants, and a glittery black top with an open back. 

By the time the others arrived you totally forgot about the present still laying wrapped on the kitchen counter. Friend after friend arrived, all of them overly punctual. Except for two individuals, as always. You didn’t mind, it was only Lucas, a friend of Sebastian, with his girlfriend Mary. You didn’t particularly like her, Mary needed to be in the spotlight, sometimes you felt like she tried to replace you in your friend group. None of the others saw this most of the time though. She was ‘little miss perfect’. Well, except for Simon and Lizzy, they did see her other side sometimes.  

Putting on some music after everybody sat down in the living room, you went back to the kitchen to help Simon with the last drinks. As Simon was putting away the cake he brought on the kitchen counter he saw the small present laying around. “Who is this from?”

You walked towards him to see what he ment. “Oh, I actually don’t know. I think one of my neighbors left it for me.” shrugging you picked it up.

“Do you know what's inside?”, You shook your head, now you’ve done it. Simon loved a good mystery, something to solve, something thrilling.

“Well then, open it! I’ll get the rest of the drinks.”, he ushered you towards the living room where the others sat around your coffee table. Climbing over the back rest of your couch, you made yourself comfortable in the corner. Simon brought your drinks while you started to open the present. “What is it?”

“It’s…” you frowned. Pulling out a simple small teddy bear, with something silver on top. It was made out of plastic, nothing overly special. It was a Keychain.

“I think that’s something I could put on my keychain? Wait there's more…” There was something shiny at the bottom of the present. 

“A bracelet– Oh, it’s really pretty.” You held it towards the light, it sparkled brightly. It was a simple silver bracelet, with a little charm in the center. A cute colorful flower. 

“Aww how cute. But it seems like it was more for a child? Are you sure your neighbors know your age?” Lizzy laughed and poked you. She was what you would consider your girl bestfriend.

“Or maybe they know that you still have stuffed animals in your bed”,joked Simon and threw a pillow at him. “Hey, be careful, my drink!”, he exclaimed with a feigned outrage. You flipped him off. It wasn’t your fault that you could only go to sleep, while holding something in your arm.

“Don’t pout, come I’ll put the bracelet on. Then we get you a tiara and you’ll be a Disney princess.”Lizzy grabbed the bracelet of your hand and put it on you.

“And put the keychain thing to your keychain–”, Marcus said as they all laughed at your embarrassment. You gave them a look. 

“Really guys, do I have to?”, you whined. 

“Yes, give it to me, I’ll do it. You open the rest of our presents. I promise you’ll like them”, winked Simon and held out his hand. Reluctantly you gave him the key chain and started to open the other presents.

The other presents were way better. You got some games, wine and everybody plus your mom pitched in to buy you a new bike. They hid it in front of your door before. You had tears in your eyes as you thanked each of them. ‘You had the best friends’ 

After eating the cake there was nothing to stop you guys from going all out. Drinking games, Beer pong, dancing or just talking. Later on, Lucas and his girlfriend arrived around 10. At this point everybody was in a good mood and slightly drunk. On seeing the bike, Mary was offended that they hadn’t waited for them to give me my present. 

You were about to tell her that it was your birthday, when some of the others already apologized to her. Telling her they didn’t know when they would show up.Annoyed, you refilled your drink, and went back to the friends playing beer pong. You needed to get drunk more to be nice to her. She wasn’t even here for 5 minutes and everything had to resolve around her.

The party got louder and better, all having a good time. Half an hour before you wanted to leave Mary came to you while dancing, grabbing your arm. “Is that the bracelet you got from your neighbor? The others told me about it. It's so cute. Can I try it on? I always wanted something like this…”, Mary asked you with her stupid baby voice. She immediately tried grabbing it off your arm.

“Ehm, hey wait a second. Here, but I want back before we go.”, You didn’t want any drama today. She nodded her head, waved you off and reassured you that you would get it back in a second.

You did, in fact, not get it back within a second and when you were standing in the queue to the club, you realized that she still had it on. Now it was too late.

Inside the club your friends surprised you, they booked a small area to sit with a table in the middle. Some drinks and bottles, waiting for you in the middle. 

“Guys! You shouldn’t have!”, you exclaimed happily. 

“Only the best for you Birthday girl!” Simon cheered! Hugging you tightly. Celebrating your birthday never felt better. You did a few shots and then most of you went off dancing to the dancefloor for the next hour.

Coming back from the dance floor you sat back down exhausted. Every time you went out you asked yourself the same question. ‘Why did you even decide to wear heels today?’ All of you started to get new drinks and someone suggested to spice things up and play an old fashioned “Truth or Dare”. Without truth of course, because it was way too loud.

You loved these games, it was always fun to watch. Though you didn’t like doing dares yourself, always feeling a bit shy and easily embarrassed. Now with the alcohol you did feel more comfortable. Maybe you would be up to do a dare. As if reading your thoughts Simon yelled at you over the table “Y/N”. 

You looked at him with pleading eyes, your confidence dwindling. “Noo.. Please…”

“No! I’ve waited enough. I dare you to go out there and make out with a stranger!” he exclaimed, pointing to the dance floor. Some of your friends whistled at that. 

Not waiting for you to think about it Simon stood up. “Do you trust me? We go dancing and I promise I won’t let some creep near you. Only handsome guys?” He held out his hand. You thought about it. If not now, when would you ever do it? You needed to get over your own shadow. Quickly you emptied your glass. For the extra bit of confidence.

“Pinky promise?” you asked, feeling bold suddenly and holding out your pinky. He looked surprised and instantly linked your pinky with his. “Promisee.” happily he dragged you to the dance floor. 

“What's your age range? Still someone around your age?” Simon asked, wiggling his eyebrows. 

You rolled your eyes at his behavior. “I don’t know. He can be older… but not above 50!!” Simon pretended to be shocked at your revelation, holding his hand above his heart. 

“Older men! How scandalous!”, you jabbed his side. 

“Let's go before I change my mind.”, you threatened. As you made your way on the dance floor they started to play one of your favorite songs ‘Unholy’.

“As information, I’m going back as soon as I see you enjoy yourself. I’m not watching a full make out session from you.”, he shouted in your ear. Laughing, you nodded. Fair enough, you wouldn’t want to watch him make out with Sebastian either. Both of you started dancing to the music, stealing glances at the people around you. 

More like Simon was looking around, whereas you tried not to think about the dare too much. 

You felt the people dancing all around you. Swinging your hips and moving your arms around your body, you felt yourself getting lost in the music. 

Simon and you danced yourself further into the crowd. Someone bumped against your ass, touching it. Before you could even react somebody else pushed that person away. It was not Simon, seeing as he was still dancing right before you. He raised a brow gesturing behind you. Mouthing the simple word ‘Hot’.

While dancing you turned your head slightly to look behind. You couldn’t see much, all the flickering colorful lights made it hard to recognize anything. He was tall, broad shoulders and his hair seemed to be a bit longer. You continued dancing, Simon nodding at you. ‘Fuck it. Simon better not be wrong’ You trusted his judgment. In the rhythm of the music, you danced backwards until you found yourself practically grinding your ass on him. He didn't move away, dancing in sync with you.

One of his hands placed itself on your hip, pulling you even more against him. You felt a sudden rush of confidence, as you continued swaying your ass against him and felt something hardened in his pants. It felt huge. 

Using this confidence boost and as a confirmation you spun around, still dancing. ‘Could you do it?’ Looking up at his face, sadly, the flashing lights still barely illuminated his face. Looking closer you could make out a few facial features. He also had a slight beard. Even without knowing his exact looks, you felt a certain pull towards him. ‘I bet he is handsome’ You were not one to make the first move, but you were going to fulfill your dare. 

‘You could do it. You looked fucking hot  and you wouldn't see him ever again.’ Dancing against him, his slight erection pressing against you, you took the initiative, steadying yourself with one hand at his shirt. 'Why wouldn’t he take the first step? Why did the women need to take control in this situation?' Until now you were always the more experienced partner, so it was nothing new for you. Even though you would like some change. Him taking control, getting rough or just doing what he wants… Maybe you read too many dark romance books.

Slowly wandering with the other hand up his chest, resting it at his neck. Slightly you pulled his head towards you to push your lips onto him. His lips were rough. At first it was just you moving your mouth against his. You felt him putting away his drink on the high table next to you. 

As he still did not reciprocate the kiss and for a second you thought that you read the signs wrong. At least you fulfilled your dare. However as soon as you broke the kiss and stepped back, he roughly grabbed your face, pulling you back into him. Surprised by the sudden force of his grip, a small yelp escaped you, before he silenced it with a kiss. The action instantly sent a warm fuzzy feeling down to your core. 

Kissing you hard, your mouths moved in sync. His large hand on the side of your face kept your head in place. You winced slightly when he bit your lip, but he hardly seemed to notice. He tried to slip his tongue between your lips, but you denied it. 

Trying to gain control of the kiss and situation. You heard a low grumble from him, he seemed discontented with your attitude. You smirked against his lips, which seemed to annoy him further. Moving his hands down your body, he grabbed your ass, hard. The pain going straight into your core, making you moan into his mouth. He seized the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your mouth. 

This time you didn’t even try to get the upper hand, you liked that he was in control. Finally someone who was more dominant in these things. Giving you the time to explore this new, more submissive side. Letting go of your face he moved his hand down your body. Over your chest, stomach and finally resting at your hips, pulling you against him. Goosebumps traveled all over your body, where his hands touched you. Your brain felt dazed, this was the hottest makeout session you ever had. You didn’t care about his roughness or the biting, you rather liked it.

When he broke the kiss you were both panting heavily. Slowly, almost teasing, he traced his fingers up your spine before grabbing you by your hair and tilting your head upwards to look at him. Your mouth parted slightly, a small moan escaped your lips. It stung where he had his grip on your hair, but the slight pain turned you on even more. Sure you knew you liked reading about these kinds of things, but experiencing them made you feel even more aroused.  

For a split second, you thought you saw his panting expression change into a smirk. Before you could think twice, he kissed you again. Your mind instantly went blank, his kiss was like a drug. This kiss was slower, still rough but he set the tone. Moving his lips against yours, pushing his hand between your legs. You felt hot, everything felt way too hot to bear, never had you been kissed with such passion. You needed to be closer to him. You tried running your hands down his body. 

He removed his hands in an instant, grabbing yours and pushing them back to your sides. You let out a small whine. ‘What was going on with you? You never whined. You felt like a schoolgirl, making out for the first time’ Shaking his head disapprovingly, he turned away to grab his drink. Taking a sip, he held it near your lips, offering it to you. “It’s just water.”

You knew you shouldn’t drink from strangers, though you were way too drunk to think straight or even logically. ‘You wanted to keep making out and if that helped?’ Looking up at him you tilted your head forward against the glass and emptied the whole glass. You didn’t even realize how thirsty you were, and a glass of water seemed like a good option.

“Good girl.”, you heard his deep voice beside your ear. The loud music was making it hard to hear him clearly. The praise went straight to your core. He put his drink away and you began dancing to the music. More like grinding on each other. 

He still didn’t allow you to touch him much and you wanted nothing more than to travel your hands up and down on his body, or under his shirt. He leaned down, grabbing your hips to press you against him. Pressing his hard crotch against your lower stomach, making you inhale a sharp breath.  

“Can I get your number?” his deep voice mumbled against your ear. You pondered. It felt like he was growling. Slowly he began caressing your ear, gently kissing his way to your neck, making you close your eyes, leaning your head back to give him better access. Your legs were feeling weak. Running his thumb along your jawline, he sucked and bit in your neck, as he kissed his way back to your ear. 

“Please?” his voice was a low growl against your ear. Your eyes fluttered open again as you nodded, desire filled your body. You would do anything, if he kept going on like this. 

He kissed you softly this time and you bit his lip as he tried ending the kiss. You wanted to kiss him longer. You missed his warmth already, and also missed the dark look flashing up in his eyes. He pulled his phone out, tipping something before handing it to you. As you grabbed his phone, you felt yourself wobble to the side. Luckily he grabbed you in time and stadied you against his body. Now your back was pressed against his front.

You thought about grinding your butt against him, but as if sensing your thoughts he nudged you towards his phone. Looking at the screen, it was truly hard to concentrate for you. He kept sidetracking you by placing soft kisses on your neck.

Blinking rapidly you slowly made out the numbers. Your vision seemed a bit blurry, your eyes feeling so heavy. ‘You didn’t even drink that much’ After what felt like hours you successfully put in your number. As soon as you were done, he grabbed his phone back.

You were so drunk that you didn’t notice the contact already had a name. - Sweetheart - Turning back to him you nearly lost your balance, falling against his chest. His arm wrapped around your side, steadying you as he began walking you through the crowd of dancing people. You found it so difficult to keep your balance, you felt funny. You couldn’t seem to focus, everything stayed a bit blurred. You didn’t even know where he took you. Was he taking you home?

“Hey, sorry to bother you guys.”, he loudly said to someone over the music as he came to a stop. You leaned your face against his shoulder. You were really tired.

“You are her friends, right? I think someone put something in her drink, one minute she was fine and the next she could barely stand.” Your brows furrowed, ‘drugged? You were fine… when should that have happened? Didn’t those drugs work way quicker?’ Shocked gasps filled the air. 

“I thought I would bring her back to you, so you can get her home.” He had such a calming and sympathetic voice. ‘Why would he bring you back? You were having fun.’ You playfully bit him in his chest, making him tighten his grip on your hip. His lips pressed in a firm line.

“Yes, yes she is our friend. Oh fuck. Thank you so much man!” Four hands grabbed you off the stranger you were leaning onto. You pouted.

“No-o I don’t wa- want to”, your voice slurred, you sounded like a brat. Struggling against their grip, not wanting to leave his side, but they were stronger than you. Also your fight wasn't really that much of a fight as you thought, you could hardly stand straight. You didn’t even knew his name. His jaw clenched as he looked towards you and the two holding you, his eyes lingered on the arm of the girl.

“Yes yes, hopefully you got his number.”, said a high pitched female voice near your ear. It sounded like Mary. You looked around, it was Lucas and Mary who supported you. ‘Why those two?’

 “Why didn’t you tell me you liked older men?” Giggling, you shrugged your shoulders.

“He is so fine, maybe I should talk to him too.” Mary whispered in your ear. ‘What about her boyfriend?’

“Well, thanks again man, I’m Simon, her best friend. We’re taking her home asap, before something happens…” he began, as Lucas and Mary led you away. He gestured for them to stop, but they didn’t look back. Thus you couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation play out. It was a good thing. Drugged or not, your subconsciousness would have freaked out sooner or later.

“No problem Simon. It is what everybody would have done. Call me Cooper.”, he held his hand out for him to shake, which Simon gladly accepted.

“Nah, I don’t think so. Some sick fuck, may have taken advantage of her in a state like that. So thank you Cooper.. Shit, I just wanted her to have a good time on her birthday.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself Simon. I was glad I could help. Wish her a happy birthday from me, I hope she feels better in the morning.” Simon nodded, turning around to talk with the others and Cooper soon vanished in the crowd. Slowly your friends started to follow the three of you back to the entrance of the club. 

“Hey, Y/N you stay here and wait. Lucas and I get the jackets. Just hold onto the handrail of the stairs or sit down. You can stand on your own for a bit, can’t you? ”she asked, concerned and something different in her voice. You gave her a thumbs up before holding onto the railing again. 

“We will hurry as best as we can, the others should be here soon.” She came closer, whispering in your ear. 

“Also you can stop your show now. Yes it’s your birthday, but do you need that much attention?”, with that she and lucas made her way to the coat check waiting line. 

You let your head fall back as you take deep breaths. ‘Show? What show?’ Deeply breathing in the fresh air that was coming from the entrance. Few people were walking past you either coming in or leaving the club. Still it was hard concentrating on anything, but you were doing okay.

Until you weren’t. All of a sudden you felt something against your back and in the next moment you lost your footing and along with the grip on the handrail and flew down the stairs. Instinctively your body tried not to hit the ground face first. For that you turned around to face the top of the stairs. ‘Was there a man?’ you thought. Blinking once whoever you thought you saw was gone, just panicked bystanders. Did you hear Simon?

Your side painfully crashed first into the stairs, then continuing falling further down the stairs. You tried your best to stop or push yourself up, but failed. Someone behind you grabbed your arm to stop you. The only thing it brought you was, that you landed on your foot, with your butt while also twisting it in a painful way. 

(A/N: You know, I thought about it, Leaving you hanging right here. However a)  I should not end all my chapters the same, you could get bored and b) I’m not evil.)

Pain shot up from your foot, as your tears began to form in your eyes. “Fuck, Y/N.” Simon and Sebastian seemed next to you in mere seconds. Carefully they lifted you off the ground and gently removed your foot from under you. It hurt like hell.

“Is she alright?”, one of the bouncers came towards you from the entrance, having heard the commotion. 

“Hey, can you move your foot?” Simon asked. You gave it a try, whining instantly. Crying even more you shook your head, your brain was way too foggy to come up with a smart ass reply. 

“Where were you?” yelled an otherwise rather quiet Simon. 

“Getting our jackets...” began Mary.

“She was drugged and you left her alone? Are you serious Mary?” Lizzy yelled too, her face enraged.

“How do we know she really was drugged? Maybe she just played it to get away from that man?” Mary suggested in an annoyed tone. 

“What the fuck? Did you look at her? Does she seem like a normal drunk to you? You have seen her drunk before, but never like this!”, came Lizzy's angry reply.

“Also from what I saw in the beginning, she sucked his fucking face off! Didn’t seem like she hated it.” Simon countered. 

“Why did you even leave her alone in the first place? None of this would have happened! Lucas you have no brain of your own anymore?”, Sebastian joined their yelling. The statement made Lucas' face turn the darkest shade of red. 

“Fucking pathetic. Lets get her to the emergency room, someone order an uber?”Simon turned around angrily, and he and Lizzy helped you up. Each of them supported you as you hobbled down towards the streets. The way from the Club to the ER was gone in a blur. You couldn’t remember most of it. One minute you were leaving the club and in the next you laid on a bed in the ER. ‘How did you get here?’

You looked around for your friends, but the room was empty besides Simon who was sitting next to your bed with a worried expression. Your head felt clearer, you cleared your throat.

“So what did the doctor say, Simon? What's the damage?”, better get it over with.

“Well.. bad news first. You have a bruised foot and a hyperextended ligament. As a consequence you have to wear a bandage and walk on crutches for the next month at least.”

You sighed. It seemed like he wasn’t even finished with the bad news yet.  

“You also got a few bruises on your arms, legs and back. Buut the Good news– they've given you something to counteract the effects of the drugs, but you'll probably still have to sleep it off, to fully feel better.”

“Better?” you laughed “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Anything is better than this..”

“I know..” he said as he patted your head. “Listen, they want to keep you here overnight, but just call me in the morning and we will pick you up and drive you home, ok?”

Defeated, you nodded, he squeezed your hand and left soon after. Leaving you alone in the empty room. The rest of the night was uneventful. The nurses checking up on you from time to time, bringing you more water. Sadly they also woke you up at 6 to check your vitals again and give you painkillers. After one final talk with the doctor, getting instructions from him for the next weeks and your crutches, you were ready to go home. 

As promised Simon picked you up, he even cleaned your apartment from you and forbade you from helping. He was too kind. He even made Sebastian shop some groceries for you, which he brought over. So you didn’t need to stress about that for the next couple of days. About two hours later they left, telling you to call if you needed something. 

You never had a wild birthday like that before, but somehow trouble seemed to find you. It was just a small consolation that nothing had happened to you the last months.

Still exhausted, you laid back on the couch, still in your yesterday's outfit. Closing your eyes as you enjoyed the silence. The ping of your phone ringing loud through the quietness of your apartment. You grabbed your phone and held it above your face. It was from Simon, he left not even a minute ago. Did he forget something? You opened your Phone.

– I totally forgot to tell you something. I meant to wish you a happy birthday from the man from the club last night. He also wished for you to get well soon. –

A second message followed.

– You remember? The one you made out with? He said his name was Cooper. –

Cooper…You knew that name. There was only one person that came to your mind with that exact name. Alarm Bells were going off in your head, but whatever they gave you in the hospital was working. You weren’t shaking or panicking, you were rather calm, what confused you. 

That couldn’t be true, no. Surely you would have recognized him, even in the dim light of the club. It wasn’t that dark, was it? You rested your phone on your chest and began thinking about last night. Trying to remember, you realized that reconstructing the evening would be way harder than you thought. There were a lot of gaps in your memories and many were quite foggy. Perhaps it was because of the drugs mixed in your drink.

Sighing you closed your eyes, attempting to recollect what the stranger looked like. He was tall, had a small beard, you didn’t remember his eye or hair color, but his hair was a bit longer? You were unsure. You remembered his large hands on your body, holding your head in place while kissing you. He was strong for sure. 

‘Think straight!’ you warned yourself, already starting to feel hot again. Just thinking about it still turned you on. ‘If that was Cooper, the man from that concert. You were fucked.’ 

You tried to arrange your thoughts. Yes, you made out with him, a serial killer, and you liked it, you felt disgusted. ‘You didn’t know it was him. Why would he even be there? The possibility was close to zero’ Suddenly you remembered something. 

Didn’t you drink from his drink? Of course you were drunk before, but after that everything went downhill. Recalling how super drunk and tired you felt soon afterwards. It would all make sense.

Except… Why did he bring you back to your friends then? Perhaps it was a weird coincidence? 

Maybe you should ask Simon if his name was really Cooper. Maybe he misunderstood? That looked like a good option. Opening your phone, you started to answer Simon as a new message came in. 

It was from an unknown number. A simple: – Happy Birthday Sweetheart. –

It couldn’t be, you changed your number. Not many people called you that and you faintly remember Cooper calling you like that. Before you could wonder about it more, a second message from the same number appeared. What you read then made your heart freeze in fear, your pulse increased and hands started shaking, which made reading the message harder.

– You know, you were always nervous and so easily startled, like a cute little doe. Constantly on alert and looking around, to run away, at the slightest noise. Though if there were a little accident to happen. Where will you go now little doe, if you can’t even run? –

(A/N: nvm i am evil)

[ilguna]

Piano Sessions: Style + Finnick Odair -- reader x Finnick faking a relationship to gain favor in Capitol, but real feelings develop, maybe have them towing that line in the lead-up to Quarter Quell

☼ style (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, use of the term 'good girl' kinda in a gross way, mention of gore, brief mention of the morphlings.

wc; 2.9k

notes; Piano Sessions: songfic, Style by Taylor Swift.

--

Finnick Odair is one of those victors that you have never been able to properly figure out, despite knowing him for almost eight years.

Every time you think that you’ve finally got a handle on his thought process and the way he acts, he strays, surprising you. Over the years, his impulse decisions have slowly declined, as his situation with the Capitol and District Four stabilized. However, with recent problems rising, it’s brought back his unpredictability. 

For some reason, you don’t have this issue with any of the other victors. In fact, you could read them like an open book, cracking their spines in the process because you can delve deep. It’s really not that hard to sniff out secrets in their seemingly perfect facades when you’ve been doing it for so long.

It’s a talent, really. One that not a lot of people appreciate. What happens is that they find it irritating when you know their intentions before they’ve had the chance to approach you. Most of the time, they have this look in their eye, giving it away. You don’t even need to search half the time because of it.

That’s why you can tell that Finnick is up to something right now, but you don’t know exactly what it is. From what you’ve gathered so far from the stolen glances in your direction, is that it has something to do with you. He’s just waiting for the right moment to talk to you.

Which is driving you crazy. You’re not sure what the right moment could possibly be, especially now that the two of you are on a train being shipped to the Capitol in their custody. This is not just another year of mentoring, where every thought can wait until you’re ready. You’re District Four’s tributes in the Quarter Quell, unspoken words could mean life or death. They can change the trajectory of the Games.

He knows this, of course. Probably better than anybody.

You suck in a breath through your nose, rolling your head in his direction, making eye contact right as he glances at you again. Instead of looking away immediately, the two of you enter a silent staring contest.

It doesn’t last for long. “Are you going to say it or are you going to keep looking at me?” You ask.

Finnick offers you a small smile, getting up from where he’s sitting on the plush train couch to go to you. Where you’re sitting at the dining table, enjoying the bottomless pot of sweet tea that the avoxes provide.

A laugh leaves him. “I was thinking, while we’re in the Capitol, we could fake a relationship to gain more favor.” He says nonchalantly. It’s so relaxed coming from his mouth that you almost feel ridiculous when you choke on your drink. “So that we have nothing to worry about with sponsors in the arena.”

You raise a napkin to your lips, clearing your throat, trying to get the burning pain to subside quicker.

“And it could work out in your favor too, you’ll get allies.” He continues. “Since we both know that you have a special talent for driving people away.”

You raise your eyebrows, blinking, absolutely speechless. This is exactly what you mean when you say that Finnick makes it so difficult for you to pin him down. And you’re not referring to the add-on at the end. You’re talking about the way he just casually suggested for the two of you to fake a relationship.

“Have you hit your head recently?” You ask.

“No.” He lets out a light laugh. “You can’t tell me I’m wrong, especially about the sponsor part.”

You know he’s not wrong. Your ability to anticipate intentions have lost you a good handful of friendships over the years, particularly in District Four. Your former friends saw you as an opportunity for money after your win, despite having plenty of it for themselves. So, you lost them. You told them to get lost. 

It’s stunted a lot of potential friendships since, and it’s because you’re entirely too suspicious to let new people in right away. It happened with Finnick, even though he was the one to really mentor you before going inside. You couldn’t quite place your finger on him, which makes sense seven and a half years later. He doesn’t have a consistent personality.

Still, on the other hand, your gut feeling has given you a chance to grow in other areas. Like with the Capitol, for example. You used it to your advantage during your Games, like when you interacted with the tributes around you. You knew what the Gamemakers were looking for with scoring, giving you a higher one than you deserved.

You simultaneously flattered the Capitol while talking about yourself during the interview with Caesar, getting you a step in the door. It truly isn’t difficult to sweep the Capitol off their feet in the first place, but you managed to do it so effortlessly that they held onto you. They cared about what happened to you in the arena.

When you won, it only continued from there. You became the Capitol’s favorite female darling, because Finnick was their male. It wasn’t long before you were the good girl, you couldn’t do anything wrong. Even when your tongue accidentally slipped and you showed some of your true colors.

So, while Finnick isn’t wrong about allies, he’s far off about sponsors. It’ll work more in his favor than it will in yours. Although, with his own fairly decent sized sponsor list, you two could blow the competition out of the water with your combined efforts.

But then again, you don’t really care about having allies right now. They don’t inherently matter until you’re in the Capitol, and even then with the chaos going on in the districts, you need to figure out who will be good to have around. You volunteered knowing full well you were signing up to go blind, which is why your whole plan revolves around analyzing the mindsets of the other tributes.

Especially when it comes to Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, but you know how difficult they can be. You’ll be looking at Haymitch for real direction when it comes to the rebels. His teenagers sparked the rebellion, and the rest of you will make sure that it gets set ablaze.

Finnick’s plan is almost meaningless. And so is he, to you, in some capacity. You don’t need him, you haven’t in years. If he’d been paying attention to that recently, he’d know that you’re self-sufficient in the Capitol, and you’ve never been afraid of approaching other tributes. This year will be even easier since you’re all victors, anyway.

Finnick’s proposition is just so bizarre. 

Here’s the thing—it’s been a while since you’d heard from him. The last time you held a genuine conversation beyond the formalities was a year and a half ago, when you’d decided that you were done with his whirlwind romance. He would suck you into his own personal vortex, and the only reason why you’d get spat out would be because he wasn’t interested anymore.

And it’s not like this happened once, it was multiple times. The reason why you kept going back was because your relationship before hadn’t been like that. It changed a couple months after Annie Cresta won her Games. One day, you two were stable. Next, there were more issues than you could take care of, which would be the beginning of the end.

Of course, you tried to fix every problem you had, but it didn’t feel like you were making progress. So, the next solution came to be an on-and-off relationship. You would get together, everything would be fine for a couple months, and then you’d break up. By the time he wanted you back, you’d be over the fight, and you’d go right back to him.

You thought that after the last time, he’d be done. Yet here he is, surprising you again.

“Come on, (Y/n), it’ll work out in our favor.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“It’ll work out in your favor.” You correct him. “I don’t care either way, and I think you knew that already.”

Finnick tilts his head with a knowing smile. “You caught me, but I meant what I said about allies. I have an in, and you don’t. You’ll be able to skip the processing time with me.” He winks.

He must be talking about the rebels. It makes you wonder how he’s been talking to them, especially Haymitch, or anyone else that might be involved in higher places, besides District Four. Your home has been making quite the uproar since the news of the Quarter Quell, it’s just gotten worse recently. They’ve basically flooded every possible open space with the Peacekeepers, afraid of the Mayor being overthrown. Or worse, joining in on the rebellion. Which is why they replaced the old Head Peacekeeper with a new one, and she’s a fucking bitch.

“Let me guess, I’ll have to follow your lead?”

He makes a face, “Not exactly. I can’t be in charge of an alliance that large, so I’m sure we’ll all be given a part to take care of.”

You squint at him as the realization that this is a terrible idea dawns on you. You have to admit, it’s a creative way to get you back into his arms after so long, but if it’s anything like the past ten times, you know where this leads. And you know that you should tell him to leave, but you won’t.

“Fine, I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend.” You emphasize.

Finnick gives you a dimpled smile. “I knew you’d agree.”

—

The Capitol has been eventful in its own boring way this past week.

In terms of training and impressing the Gamemakers, there wasn’t anything new. You showed up to the gym, you played around with their toys, and you’d go back to the apartment at the end of the day. From the outside looking in, no one’s been able to tell that there’s more going on in the background.

If they looked closer, they’d see that you’ve been conspiring with victors that you haven’t shown interest in the past. That you’ve been getting along with Johanna and morphlings, when rivalries and distaste haven’t been hidden from the public. That you haven’t been their perfect little darling all week.

With the Games quickly approaching, and happening as soon as tomorrow, it’s been hard to keep the anticipation from boiling over. Especially since Haymitch’s plan has finally been smoothed out, after days of working out the kinks.

At the beginning of training, you scoped out Katniss and Peeta. Truth be told, they weren’t sure about how they felt about you. After some proving, Katniss was able to admit to Haymitch that she knows something is off with you. LIke you can read her thoughts and act on them before they’re fully formed. All Peeta could say was that he thinks you’re nice and looking for peace.

This gave Haymitch an idea, which eventually led to him giving you a role—just as Finnick said he would. It’s pretty obvious how distrustful Katniss can be with Finnick, and so you’re expected to placate her, in hopes that Finnick will be able to keep control of any given situation. You told them that you’d try your best. 

If Katniss can already sense what you’re doing, it’s only a matter of time before she fully catches on and shuts you down. Once that happens, there will be no coming back. She’s stubborn, so she’ll go out of her way to ignore you and your advice. You can see it coming.

Until then, you’ll keep your promise.

“And you’re finished!” One of the prep team members sighs. He backs up, hands pressed against his chest with a dreamy look in his eye. “We’re right on time, too. They haven’t been waiting long.”

You get up from where you’re sitting on the stool, watching as your dress glimmers in the soft light. Immediately, someone jumps to fluff out the back, not wanting it to be flat. A floor-length mirror is moved to be in front of you, allowing you to see the iridescent dress. It’s primarily blue, sometimes purple, rarely pink unless you move a certain way.

“Like a soap bubble.” Your stylist remarks. “Clean.”

Of course, the colors were done with a purpose. To continue to project the idea that you’re the Capitol’s perfect darling. Maybe it’s done with the hopes that they’ll take it easy on you inside of the arena, but their opinions will change over time. They’ll smile through the gore and murder. They’ll be outraged when you try to escape.

“Thank you.” You murmur, heading for the door.

The boy seemingly jumps to open the door for you, and then he stops. You look over your shoulder at your stylist, face twisted, hoping he’ll tell him to get out of your way. Instead, you’re met with an open box, and laying right in the middle of black satin is a pair of white gloves.

They’ve got to be kidding, you think. As you force a smile to your face, you reach for the gloves, pulling them on one at a time. They’re foreign, material slightly uncomfortable against your soft hands. 

Now they open the door, letting you out.

You leave your room, going down the hall and into the living area to find Mags and Finnick. You’re greeted with a warm smile, Finnick moving across the room to hold your hand as you go down the few steps.

“Gloves?” He questions, rubbing his thumb over the material.

“I’m clean.” You roll your eyes, he lets out a breath through his nose.

“Of course you are.” He reaches to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, eyes fixated on yours.

“You’ve got that daydream look in your eye.” You murmur, stroking the side of his cheek with the back of your finger. 

It’s a look that you’re familiar with. It’s sexy, sultry. It’s what your mind clings on to when you think about him, when you dream about getting back together with him. You know that it’s a facade that he puts on for the Capitol, but he’s perfected it over these years. You can’t help falling for it, too.

“You have that red lip, classic look that I like.” Finnick murmurs. “My type in every way.”

Yes, you know. You’re Finnick’s type, because you started it. You’re the girl he loves so much that he can never get enough of, even when you’re not together. So every girl that he dates now has to have some quality of yours, because you’re the blueprint. And all the girls that come after are the copies, second editions. Clones.

But he never really needs them, because when you go crashing down, you come back every time. By your will, or the universe’s, you can never stay apart for long. You thought that the last break up was it, yet you’re here again, back to taking care of each other. You love him.

You think you love him.

“It’s time to go, we’re going to be late for check-in!” Your escort warns you two, coming down the steps. “To the elevator, let’s go.”

You reluctantly pull away from Finnick, offering him a small smile. He motions for you to go first, following behind you casually. Your escort is the last to leave the apartment, but she’s quick to enter the elevator first. She presses the buttons, holds the doors to ensure you all make it on, and then relaxes.

Once you’re on the ground floor, she loses interest in control, pushing you and Finnick to join the rest of the victors, while she takes care of the rest. This is the last time you’ll see your stylist, prep team and Mags for the night. They’ll be in the crowd, somewhere in the front row, where you’ll be able to see them when you’re on stage.

The interviews haven’t started yet, but they will be soon, judging by the giant clock on the wall, counting down from ten minutes. There’s victors scattered everywhere, friends having their own conversations. Johanna catches you two through a brief glance, waving you over to join her.

Your pace doesn’t change. You play with one of the fingers of the glove. “What’s your plan for the interview? I heard an idea going around, and I was thinking of joining in, but I wanted to hear what you’re doing first.”

“I wrote a poem.” Finnick shrugs, “For a girl.”

You blink, face twisting as you slow down. “Why would you do a poem for me when I’m with you?”

Finnick opens his mouth, and then closes it.

Your body warms as you come to a stop in the hallway. Finnick’s lips are pressed together, head slightly tilted. “It’s for Annie, isn’t it?” You ask. “I heard you’ve been out and about with some other girl.”

Some other girl, you mock in your head. It’s Annie. He’s been out with Annie, part of the reason why you think your relationship has failed in the past. It’s no coincidence it started after she won. You had a feeling there was something going on between them before you left District Four, but you were just going to ignore it because it couldn’t have been true. Finnick wouldn’t cheat.

“What you heard is true, but I can’t stop thinking about you and I.” Finnick reaches to take your hands, squeezing them. 

You sigh, “I’ve been there too a few times.”

--

this was part of my 3k celebration!!

[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter ten

[ chapter ten — 5.5k words ] [ masterlist ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ] you don't open the letter. richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

handcuffs, bus, metal detector, strip search. three pairs of socks, toothbrush, toothpaste. everything stolen by your cellmate as soon as you arrive, except what you’re wearing. entire jail segregated to hell. you claimed by the italians, who were expecting you. instructions are simple: stick to the bottom bunk, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll make it. this is jail, not prison.

nothing and no one can touch you when you’re like this, sunk deep inside yourself. your throat is still hoarse from shouting last night, but that’s incidental, not important. nothing is important.

you don’t want to be here, so you’re not. 

you’re standing on the corner with half a pack in your jacket pocket, and he’s not there—you can’t see him right now, not even in your head—but he’s on his way. the winter sinks cold so deep into you that your forehead starts to hurt. if you stand here much longer, you’re going to get a runny nose. you’re itching for a cigarette. you don’t want to smoke without him. 

a lot of people want your attention.

julie, you’ve got mail. who’s this, your man? is he trying to get you back? put a price on it, maybe you can finally get us something from commissary. 

julie, the feds are not playing around. it looks like there’s charges related to human trafficking coming down the pipeline, and they’re trying to tie you to it. i’m doing my best with your defense, but if you don’t want to cooperate, i can’t guarantee—do you hear me? 

julie, when she comes through, we’re gonna take her back here. if you see a guard coming, just keep your mouth shut and kick the dryer, okay?

a lot of people want your attention, but nobody gets it. you can survive this, put one foot in front of the other, only as long as you can stand partly sheltered by the angle of your apartment building, and listen to the wind rushing past. waiting and safe, as long as he never arrives.

the snitch gets carried out on a stretcher.

the lawyer leaves unsatisfied.

you don’t open the letter.

.

.

.

it’s much worse at night. but still, sometimes, you can sleep.

.

.

.

lunch here has a queasy familiarity. it feels like barracks or school. you sit at a long table and corresponding bench with the italians, wondering if all this sodium is gonna worsen your perpetual low-grade headache, squeezing peanut butter from its plastic packet directly into your mouth, not bothering with the bread. 

behind you, you pick out the word doctor in somebody else’s conversation. thinking that it might have something to do with you, you turn and glance over your shoulder, just in time to catch a woman saying, too loudly, no i’m fine. you think her words sound a bit slurred. you’re fifty percent sure her name is aja. 

you’re sweating, says her friend, a woman with box braids whose name you’ve never learned.  she sounds exasperated. did you take something? when she gets no answer, her voice gains a note of urgency. hey. did you take something?

aja, leaning hunched forward on the table, mumbles no.

relieved, her friend says, then just eat your lunch.

i don’t...aja blinks. goes to lift one baby carrot to her mouth, looks at it, then stops. is car warning, she explains.

in the back of your brain, something stirs.

by now, you’ve been noticed by the other women at that table, and they’re staring daggers back. they’re almost all black women, just like all the women at yours are almost all white—and your stare is violating rules more important than the law. 

beside you, your cellmate janine has caught on too. she smacks your arm a little harder than she needs to, annoyed that she has to reiterate a fundamental lesson. mind your business. but you can still hear aja muttering out a slow explanation of increasingly jumbled words, and that’s all you care to hear.

it’s like there was a heavy weighted blanket keeping you down and separate from life, and that’s suddenly lifted. you can see and hear. there are words floating to the surface, and next steps, and you’re on the move, standing up. 

every woman sitting at aja’s table is up on their feet in five seconds flat, except for aja and her friend, though the friend gives you a look that could cut glass. you can hear everyone from your table getting up behind you, too. 

what’s your problem? says one of the women standing opposite.

i’m a doctor. you’re not even looking at her, but when she says, sure you are, there’s enough menace in it to stop you in your tracks. then janine has an iron grip on your arm, trying to drag you away. it’s too late. when you said you’re a doctor, you believed it, and with that the world has come into focus with perfect clarity. the rest doesn’t matter.

is she diabetic? you say.

janine hisses in your ear stupid fucking bitch fast and low and you can see a flicker of movement to your right, another woman from your side coming for you, so you wrestle free from janine and dart a few steps forward. as quick and smooth as if you’d planned it, a woman from aja’s side steps behind you, between you and your own table. she’s taller than you by about six inches. she says, yeah, she’s diabetic. 

permission enough. you sit down on the other side of aja. up close, she’s sweating and wearing a concerned expression, like she’s forgotten where she left her phone. you can hear the guards shouting, getting closer. you ignore them.

don’t touch her, the friend snaps.

who’s gonna take her pulse, then? keeping a careful eye on the friend, you reach for aja’s arm. nobody stops you. aja herself looks at you with vague suspicion in her golden brown eyes, but she’s not all there enough to resist. once you get your fingers on her wrist and find her pulse, you don’t bother counting it for a full thirty seconds, that’s how fast her heartbeat is going. 

at this point, the outside world has gotten too loud, too insistent, and you can feel the moment about to break. 

she needs sugar now, you say to the friend. or she’ll end up in a coma.

got it, she says, and then the guards are on you. with shouts and shoves, they break up the gathering, end lunch ten minutes early. with a yank of your shirt, you’re returned to your group. 

what the fuck is wrong with you, janine hisses, but you barely hear her. you’re still thinking on your patient, trying to get a look. you think you see the friend reaching for somebody else’s tray—to get a packet of strawberry jam, maybe—but you can’t be sure.

.

.

.

it makes no sense. your head throbs. if janine’s threats are even half true, you’re in for more trouble than you know how to handle, and you didn’t know how to handle your troubles before. but somehow, once you’re in the laundry room, it happens. 

you realize that you like it all. the strong smell of detergent, the sun coming in golden through the high windows built too thin for jumpers, the way you have to lean forward and really push against the weight of hundreds of t-shirts in the hamper trolley. even the finicky machine quitting mid-cycle only amuses you, because you know the trick to starting it up again: thump it in the right spot a couple times, hear it rumble back to work. it’s not until one of the guards passes by you that you hear, the fuck are you smiling about? and you realize you were smiling at all. you stop at once.

the thing is: you fucking did it. at dinner, you’ll see aja sitting at that same table, eating and talking clearly. she’ll be fine. you did that. you never thought you’d get this again, but it seems not everything is over. there is still a little life in you, enough to save hers.

not everything is over, and for once you can think about the letter tucked into your bra without it burning you. 

you don’t imagine it contains forgiveness—hope isn’t the same as delusion—but there could still be something in it that you would want to keep. richie could never respect your decision to leave. loyalty is what he’s cared about most, the one value he’s managed to cling onto by the skin of his teeth. but he might at least understand. 

times past, he has understood you far better than you expected, and strangely enough, you’ve understood him too. he might understand you now. stranger things have happened.

you won’t read the letter, of course. but you’ll keep that possibility with you, the one thing you have left to hold.

.

.

.

hey doc, come here. look at this. 

janine is calling to you from across the laundry room, beckoning you towards the back corner where the security cameras don’t quite reach. you hesitate. you’re not stupid. that’s exactly the spot they once made you stand guard, and given how publicly you ignored all orders today, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was janine’s turn to stand watch and your turn to take the beating. it’s been a while since you’ve done that. you’re probably rusty. ah, fuck it.

you leave the bin of stained shirts where it is and walk over, rounding the corner to find two women waiting for you. one you recognize immediately as an enforcer, blonde and tall and glaring ferociously at you. the other, slight and silver-haired, is the leader. 

do you know why you’re here? she says. calm, even pleasant, like a schoolteacher. 

i have a guess, you say.

so the leader explains. she takes her time with it, uses so many words, but the long and short of it is: you have been living an easy life. they have been taking care of you, and you’ve repaid them with nothing but trouble. angie—the massive woman leaning on the far wall, the enforcer—burned herself today in the kitchen, on purpose, badly enough that she got sent to the infirmary. sure enough, there’s a bandage around the enforcer’s left forearm. aja was supposed to also be in the infirmary, unconscious.

why angie and aja would need to be in the infirmary together, with aja unconscious, is obvious. the leader doesn’t need to explain that part. 

interfering is a crime. interfering in someone else’s murder is a crime whose punishment you can’t afford.

i didn’t know, you say. on hearing your thin voice, you realize your mistake. times like these, you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut. matter of fact, almost always, you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut. 

i’ve been told you have a letter on you, the leader says. let me see it.

you say nothing. she motions to the enforcer.

in your second tremendously stupid choice of the day, you fight back. you duck one punch only to get your ears rung by another, square in the left eye. after that, she deals with you easily, with the advantages of height, weight, reach, and the knowledge that this might be her one chance to get you back. she hates you and she fights like it, like she might just kill you and call it an accident. it’s all you can do to keep quiet, not yell for help. 

in under a minute, she’s back to the leader with your letter in her hand, snatched from your bra. the sound of your own heavy breathing is so unsteady, it’s almost as bad as crying. your eye has already begun to swell up. 

we have a problem, the leader says. if you can’t follow the most basic instructions, how can we trust you? and if we can’t trust you, what can we do? 

in the silence, you realize: they have everything now.

you need to prove that we can trust you. you have no idea how you could possibly do that, and then she adds, tell me about what you did for linda.

this time, you think it through before you open your mouth. 

you know what she’s asking about, of course. it’s the only thing you’ve ever done for your boss’s wife directly, and you were told to keep it secret, too. an iud for her daughter-in-law, along with a fake fertility treatment. what a woman would do to convince the people closest to her that she wants children, when she doesn’t. you know what those men are like.

i don’t know what you’re talking about, you finally say. if you have a problem with linda, go settle it with her. 

the enforcer starts forward, but the leader stops her. i’ll give you the night to think about it, she says, as undisturbed as ever. but first, i want you to tell me the list of things we could do if you turn out to not be trustworthy. i need to make sure that you know.

you need to get these women away from you so badly now that it’s almost easy to talk. 

you could kill me. you say that first because you doubt they’d bother with that much effort. or make my life miserable. you could keep that letter. you could talk to your boss and work it so i get stuck in here for a ten-year stretch. 

and other than that?

i don’t know.

we could make it so you never work as a doctor again.

does she know?

her pale green eyes give nothing away, and the longer you stare at her, desperately trying to pierce her pitiless calm, the more you feel you’re only exposing yourself. eventually, you give up. it doesn’t matter if she knows. the carusos know. if they expose you, the best years of your life, spent in hard work and little else, they’ll be gone. the worst years of your life, spent in restless loneliness and little else, they’ll be gone too. if that bomb drops, there’s no point to any of it. a decade of your life, best and worst, all for nothing. every second of every day. everyone you pushed away. 

i’m in jail, you manage to say. i don’t think i’ll get work as a doctor ever again.

i’m just the messenger, the leader says. see you tomorrow.

.

.

.

that night, you wait for janine to snore, then you bury your face in the pillow and discover that you’re wound too tight to even cry. the pillow smells like old socks. you turn over and stare up at the bunk bed above you instead. 

it’s not a choice, it’s just pure dread. in this place, you have nobody else. if the italians drop you, you’ll be as easily extinguished as the slugs that little boys like to sprinkle with salt, but it’ll take much longer, however long they make your sentence. your lawyer said the feds were trying to pin human trafficking on you. maybe they’ll succeed. it’s life or hell, that’s the point. life or hell isn’t a choice.

you will tell them what they want to know. they will pass it back up the chain to old caruso, who in turn will figure out that alessandra has been fooling him all along with that combination of iud and fake fertility treatment. wronged the family, in his eyes. maybe, given the raid that came not long after, it will be considered a sign that she knew the end was coming and helped it along.

maybe she did snitch. you don’t know. does the truth matter? this man looked at his own wounded son and said, he should be dead. not helping death along was his idea of fatherhood. but he had considered it, you know. this is the man you’re going to deliver your patient to, the man who has you by the throat.

when you first learned about the hippocratic oath, you found it romantic in the only way you could bear: do no harm. not be kind or even do good, not change the world or save the day, and certainly nothing as lushly irrational as love. something possible and real. a solid foundation. first, do no harm. 

alessandra might never know that you’re the one who gave her up.

that’s your patient, you remember a veteran surgeon saying to another resident. you can’t exactly remember what made him say it, some disrespect, but the viciousness of his voice left an impression on you. the unspoken seemed obvious. they’re the patient, you’re the doctor. they let you cut them wide open and put your hands inside them, so you better be prepared to show some fucking respect. surgeons always have a reputation for ego, so maybe it had nothing to do with treating the patient well, maybe it was a pure ego thing. but it felt, and still feels, like a personal claim. you violate your own patient and you might as well be a leafless tree, an unloving father.

you think over the leader’s words, trying to find yourself some loophole. relive each word as best you can while sniffing back snot because you have no tissues. but all you find is that the letter is gone now too, and with that, you tighten your jaw and refuse to let yourself start crying, because this time if you lose it, you’ll be lost.

the laundry room sunlight feels like it fell on your face years ago. that hope is gone. richie would not understand you abandoning your patient, and you wouldn’t want him to. you don’t even want him living in the same country as this fucking place. 

why didn’t you open that letter when you had the chance? if it’s not understanding, it’s probably rage, and you want that.  you would willingly read in excruciating detail just how fucked up it is that you caused his best friend’s death and then wormed your way so deep into his life that you could see him up close fighting the grief like a fish against the hook. you’d take that. if he tells you to go fuck yourself, fair enough. as long as it’s his words. that letter is the last of him, and you want it. 

that letter is the last of him because once you give up alessandra, there’s no coming back. once you give up alessandra, you’re not just a legal liability, not just a burden, but a genuine honest to god piece of shit twice over. you were a piece of shit already, but this?

you only realize you had hope now that you’re losing it. you only know you want to be a doctor once your license is on the line; you only know you were going to go back to him now that the door is receding many more years into the distance. there’s some life left in you, yeah. that’s not a good thing.

.

.

.

when you get up out of bed the next morning to meet your fate, your left eye has swollen up so badly you can barely see out of it. you face the morning, the sudden harsh overheads turning on, with half vision and a desperate, helpless longing to be numb. the numbness doesn’t return, though the leader does. 

she sits next to you at breakfast. there’s no enforcer this time. apparently you’re not enough of a threat.

well? she says.

you should’ve cried last night; maybe then you wouldn’t feel such an intense urge to cry now. stupid. you say nothing. you want to pick at the lumps of rubbery scrambled egg on your tray, but you only stare at them.

this is your chance. she doesn’t say it like a threat. she says it like a friend. you sure you have nothing to tell me?

it’s happening, you can feel it happening, but you can barely process. she thinks your silence is a no. she thinks she’s being denied. and you know you need to tell her what she wants to hear, but the guilt of it is so heavy that your mouth stays closed. you’re terrified of her. of yourself. you know what will happen once you crack and open your mouth and let your patient down: your life will be over. and you have no idea of exactly what will happen if you don’t open your mouth, but your imagination can fill in those blanks a thousand different ways. 

you’re just fucking scared in all directions, and what it amounts to is this: you keep your mouth shut.

after what feels like hours, the leader speaks.

okay, she says. i’ll pass it on. 

she gets up from the table. around you, women are eating and joking and squabbling as usual. it doesn’t feel like you made a decision. it doesn’t feel like the end of anything. it just feels like you’re waiting for the next punch to land.

.

.

.

days go by and you’re still tensed, waiting for that punch. nothing seems to change, but it’s cold comfort. and there’s no comfort in the moral victory, either—discovering that you have a single principle left doesn’t make you feel any better when all your energy goes into keeping your guard up. every dull hour, every dull meal could be taken away from you at any moment. the afternoon light in the laundry room is still beautiful. somebody should try to hurt you, and soon. if they don’t, you’re just going to lose it.

and then there she is. the enforcer, sitting on your bed, when you come back from the laundry room smelling of bleach from the white shirts. the burn on her arm is still bandaged. in full light, she looks even bigger. dirty blonde hair swept back in a ponytail, grey eyes hateful. 

when she takes out that blue envelope, your chest tightens. you can tell that she enjoys the look on her face, but it doesn’t last long. it’s strange. she tosses the letter with a dismissive gesture, and it lands on the floor between you.

congratulations. she still hates you, that much is clear—but she’s no longer enjoying herself, and that’s vital. that’s a good sign.

yeah? you say.

jack says you pass. 

she shoves past you hard on her way out. it’s all you can do not to snatch up the letter from the ground, to try and look as though you have some kind of control. 

.

.

.

> dear julie, 

> i don’t know if you remember me, but you dated my best friend mikey a while ago. when i found out you got arrested, i talked to tina about it. she said you helped him till the day he died, and you’re the one who got us narcan.

> that sounds about right to me. i heard negative things about you once, but i never believed them. some things only come around once in a while, like a leap year. (which doesn’t have 365 days, it has 366.) one of those rare things is a friend who’s there when you need them. you have to recognize them when you see them. i think i recognize you now.

> this is just me saying that we haven’t forgotten you. tina says hi, and i’ll come visit, if you’ve got the time to spare. i’m guessing you’re pretty bored in there, and i can honk my horn and take a pie to the face as well as the next guy. 

> yours,

> richie

.

.

.

yeah, that’s him. 

you know it’s him on the first reread, because you can see all the tightness falling away as he writes, from the cramped propriety and false casualness in the first sentences to the dear clown stupidity of the last. you know it’s him on the second reread, because he’s lying in his own way, trying to fit in with what you wanted, pretending he’s just the friend of your ex, not admitting to knowing you. you’re crying. you’ve waited a long time to cry. that’s incidental. 

it’s only on the fifth reread that you snag on the part about the leap year. it’s the weirdest part, the parentheses. long after you have the letter half-memorized and tucked away in your bra, after dinner and lights out, you’re thinking on it. you fall asleep to the question and wake up the next morning with the answer. 

i’d bet my life that there was a sig p365 in his hand when they found him.

some things only come around once in a while, like a leap year. (which doesn’t have 365 days, it has 366.)

what if it wasn’t you?

no, you’ve been inside for less than two months and you’re already detaching from reality. that’s probably what’s happening here. but you can practically feel the warmth coming off the page, and that’s all that matters. 

your nose is practically fountaining snot, and without kleenex, you just wipe it on your sleeve and read the letter again.

it’s only hours later that you stop obsessing over the letter for long enough to truly realize what has happened. you’re going to be okay. 

.

.

.

the days pass quiet now. your swelled eye heals up slowly, until one morning you have full vision again. just as before, all you do is sleep, eat, work, and keep to yourself. nothing has changed. 

nothing has changed on the surface.

.

.

.

you think about alessandra all the time, because of course you do. 

just because old caruso couldn’t get you to flip on her doesn’t mean she’s safe, and yet you think about her the way you think about aja, the way you think about a gap-toothed surgery patient from way back in your residency sometimes. the thing that made you text your bosses begging for news about the carbon monoxide poisoning patients. that’s still in you. 

you know you can’t actually save anyone in a way that lasts—any and all work can be undone in an car-crash instant, and sometimes is—but still. one of your patients has to make it, or else what’s the point?

eventually you stop seeing aja around, but you don’t hear any talk about her getting killed, so you figure: that’s the one. that’s the one you got to save. it makes no sense, you know, but you have this feeling that if you get to save anyone, you only get to save one. so you try to prepare for the news that alessandra is gone. 

but when the news comes of a death in that family, it’s not the one you expected.

you stare at your lawyer, shocked. wait, so old caruso is dead?

suicide, she says matter of factly. hung himself in his cell. 

the fuck? so do we think that… you trail off, mindful of the cameras, even if they’re technically supposed to be turned off for lawyer consultations. you believe he’s dead, but you don’t believe for a second that he actually killed himself. 

your lawyer shrugs. who knows. all that matters is that apparently there’s an informer of some sort that’s turned over a bunch of shit—cellphone records, emails—and they’re willing to give an affidavit that you were threatened. there’s a couple pretty graphic and specific examples. for example, allegedly, after the first surgery you performed in the easystop basement, the oldest of caruso’s sons put his hand in the semi-coagulated blood and—

he’s dead now, you feel obligated to say. it’s whatever. you remember it well, though you wish you didn’t.

she’s admirably noncommittal, your lawyer. it would be nice if it wasn’t so annoying. which one is dead now?

most of them, i guess. the father’s dead, the oldest son is dead, and the youngest son will probably never be the same despite your best efforts. considering those numbers, it’s nothing short of a miracle that jack, the middle son, has apparently decided to spare you. you kept your mouth shut on behalf of his wife, but right now there’s such a tangle of complications and so few actual facts available to you that you can’t begin to guess what’s truly happening behind the scenes. you can only be grateful that you haven’t been hurt worse. 

your lawyer is considering you with shrewd eyes. after a second, she says, if i can get you a plea deal, will you take it? 

i can’t testify, you say automatically.

i know. i think i can get a deal without testimony included.

wait, really? 

she gives you a look, as if to say, catch up, dummy.

how many years? you say.

months, possibly. we’ll see.

you hardly know what to say to that. cool, you say, feebly.

you’ve kept your mouth shut, so they’re taking it easy on you, that’s the bottom line. it feels like a copout to escape the worst punishments on the basis that you were coerced, even if that’s true, because you feel like you probably deserve worse. but fuck, you’ll take mercy from anywhere right now, right and wrong and dignity be damned.

i’ll let you know. your lawyer gets up to go, but just as you’re about to call for the guard, she stops short. oh, one last thing. your landlady finally agreed that you don’t need to pay her rent for the past two months.

lovely.

she threw out all of your belongings that the cops didn’t take.

can’t say i’m surprised. it still hurts, but it’s a hurt dwarfed by the immense relief of an imminent plea deal. i’d sue, but we both know my retainer’s gonna run out too soon for that.

she did forward your mail to me, though. 

my mail? what is it, a dollar fifty off a personal pan pizza?

one postcard from your mom and her boyfriend and his family. one interview request for a doctoral residency program in indiana. 

you don’t know which of those is weirder. the residency applications you mostly did in a period of loneliness and boredom. they were an exercise in desperation daydreaming, not meant to touch real life, and you never even imagined a person reading the papers you submitted. getting a response, a good response, is as strange as a character stepping off a page. and your mom having a boyfriend is no surprise, but a boyfriend with a family? the world’s ended, yeah, but is the world ending?

can you forward those to me? you say.

they’re already in the mail. you should get them within the next two weeks.

when your lawyer leaves, you’re still sitting there. the guard has to call your name twice before you get up.

what a fucking week.

.

.

.

if you’re gonna get out in months, then…

.

.

.

you earn seventy-two cents per day working in the laundry. the first time you go to the commissary, you buy a stamp, an envelope, and a blank card. then you smuggle detergent out of the laundry room so you can bribe janine into letting you borrow her pen.

you have richie’s letter memorized, but you read it again anyway. then you stare at the blank white space of the card. 

what is there to say? well, fucking everything, but there isn’t much you can say with the inevitable prison guard reading it all too. that cuts you off from saying most things, and then dignity wants you to shut up about the rest. sorry i thought my life was over and tore you to pieces about it. turns out my life isn’t over, can we be friends again?

thing is, if you write him a letter, he’ll write back, even if it’s to tell you to fuck off. and honestly at this point, you’d give up a lot more than dignity for that. so here fucking goes.

> dear richie,

> thank you for writing. i’m not good company right now and i can’t really write letters, but maybe we can get coffee sometime when i’m out?

> yours,

> julie

the yours gives you away, but you have so little else to offer. and besides, he started it.

it’s disciplined. that’s what you’re trying to tell yourself. it’s disciplined and concise and it gets across exactly as much as he needs to know and jesus fucking christ that short note looks absolutely pitiful in the comparatively vast white space of the card. 

so you make an addition.

> p.s. tear the bottom off for eva.

as best as you can, you draw the horses from memory. arched necks, white and dark patches on their coats, as close to the style of the girl who loved horses as you can. and then one girl with a superhero’s mask and a cape, holding up an apple so the tallest horse can eat it. you don’t draw well, but you don’t have the pen long enough to try a do-over. there’s a small chance you’ll make her smile, and that’s all you want. 

lick envelope, peel stamp, and send.

[ next chapter pending ] [ masterlist ]

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.

.

a huge thank you to all readers.

taglist: @garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109, @shinebright2000, @scorpiolystoned, @fancyvoidtragedy, @justficsandstuff, @fromirkwood, @gills-lounge, @lostfleurs, @spicydonut25— if anyone wants to be added to or removed from the taglist, let me know!

[lakesbian]

@simurghed ok here are some miscellaneous nothing thoughts ive had about undersiders team vacation for you. this is my purest form of autism theres literally nothing interesting under this post just a lot of words of me sticking undersiders into situations. thats not intended as self deprecation just fair warning

if they went in a cave where the tour guide is like "DO NOT TOUCH ANY CAVE FORMATIONS or they will BE DESTROYED, FOREVER, after THOUSANDS OF YEARS OF BEAUTIFUL EXISTENCE" brian would immediately proceed to spend the entire tour staring at aisha and alec instead of looking at the rocks and shit and preparing to grab them if either of them attempts to touch a cave formation. alec would accidentally set his hand on one w/o realizing while huffing and puffing his way up stairs or a steep incline but he would be walking behind the rest of the team so no one would notice and he would pretend it didn't happen

brian accidentally slams his forehead into top of low tunnel everyone is walking through and swears for like 20 continuous seconds and then has to go sit somewhere with an ice pack and the entire time hes like I bet aisha and alec are touching so many fucking cave formations right now.

if the undersiders went on a hike or something where there were like. Ledges. over Long Drops. aisha would without doubt go stand on them and dick around in a spry 13yo manner and it would freak brian out so much he would yell Aisha Middle Name Laborn Get Your Ass The FUCK Down From There!!!!! and then she would pretend to be startled like she was about to fall off for a moment and he would almost have a heart attack and he would be so mad for the entire rest of the day and not let her off the trail at all and keep glaring at her

if they went to a beach they could all wear cute little swimsuits...taylor would have a full bodysuit (dark gray) but mostly just spend time sitting in a chair reading. rachie wouldnt wear a swimsuit but she would just take her dogs up and down the beach on walks in normal clothes and maybe get a bit damp anyway. brian would wear swim trunks and a long-sleeved top because he also feels uncomfortable having too much skin exposed but, like, more quietly. aisha is wearing a purple tankini with one of brians giant t-shirts over top. voluntarily, to be clear, ifeel like someone might misinterpret this as "brian made her" but shes doing that on purpose. i also think she has at least one "nightgown" that is fully a massive shirt stolen from brian but thats besides the point. lisa is wearing a purple bikini with one of those like. flowy half-skirts tied around the bottom. and alec is wearing girls swim shorts and one of those sheer white swim cover tops youre supposed to take off before you get in the water except he's not taking it off

aisha keeps pestering alec to go swimming with her and he's like sure ok and lets her drag him in. and then almost drowns because he doesn't know how to swim and figured he could just "wing it." brian has to dredge him out and he spends several minutes coughing up seawater sopping wet style while brian takes the opportunity to lecture about how he's stupid. and then he spends the next half hour after that complaining about how there is Sand up his Buttcrack.

aisha and alec spend literally like over half an hour just standing next to taylors chair pestering her to make a crab rave happen. she tries to ask lisa for back-up but lisa says she also wants to see the crab rave. so it happens. very clandestinely with only a few crabs.

aisha demands a ride on brian's shoulders into the ocean. he obliges. alec demands to get to go next. he is denied, because brian thinks it would be kind of gay. he doesn't say that, but it's what he's thinking.

i think they should get to have the most miserable time on the planet all waiting for their turns to shower off in the hotel room after going swimming. reasonably they would have multiple rooms but i like to envision theres only one and everyone is shivering and holding malicious intent towards whoever is actively in the shower. they make alec go last because they know how he is with long showers and he just kind of sits tragically on the entry tile in a slowly collecting puddle of sandy water and stares into space looking haunted and intermittently shivering

undersiders trip to history museum. undersiders trip to preserved historical building. undersiders trip to preserved fancy mansion. ive posted about this one before but both alec and brian are enjoying it (for different reasons) while aisha HATES it and it's freaking all three of them out a little. alec is performatively trying to pretend he also thinks it's lame because he's (largely platonically) whipped but then he turns around and asks the tour guide an actual question and he and aisha both know that in this moment he has betrayed and abandoned her. they reconcile via shared advocacy for ice cream afterwards

alec vasil hot and tired of walking frow up incident, no deaths, intense injury to one boy's pride and also his shoes

brian laborns intense and immense joy over getting to organize and use the contents of his cargo shorts

the incredible drama of brian laborn trying to parallel park the van in a really tight spot while lisa and taylor both play unwanted spotter for him and he's like Please. just Let me Concentr-. Just let me do what i need to do just be quiet for a minute . they do stop talking for a minute, during which aisha takes the opportunity to start making fart noises

rachel lindt is fitting so many ouppie dogs in the van and theyre just kind of ferreting between everyones legs and climbing onto laps to stick their heads out the windows and shit. this starts off as something everyone but rachel is mad about but settles into a more amenable cuddle pile situation

undersiders go to aquarium or zoo....zoo would be more fun to witness because alec would complain about it being hot + smelling bad the whole time. lisa has the intelligent idea to quiet him with a blue raspberry slushie

speaking of lisa you know shes going into this entire thing like Taylor Specifically has to have the most funnest specialest time ever. shes always like "ok ill read some dinner options off the phone :)" and then all 5 of them are things taylor specifically would love. and so on and so forth.

alec vasil spotted wandering lost and ghostlike in the modern art gallery

i could go on

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hi. I’m sending this anonymously but if tumblr glitches and it isn’t anonymous please don’t post this because I’m absolutely completely entirely mortified.

I’m 20 FtM. About a year and a half ago, when I moved out and started at college, I discovered fandom, and began to get really into reading fics on AO3. My parents had heavily restricted my internet access growing up, and as new adult I began to discovered the barrage of content online.

Soon enough, I was spending about an hour or two every night reading smut fics. I never thought anything of it, because, well, it’s just words, it’s not *actually* porn, right?

Recently I did start watching some explicit videos but tried to limit myself to only once or twice a month because the shame I felt as well as the strange dissatisfaction just wasn’t worth it.

After doing some research, I found a study that said that watching porn for more than an hour a week was unhealthy. I thought, yeah, okay, fair enough.

Then I realised: does my fanfiction reading count as pornography?

I kept thinking to myself that because it was text it didn’t count, but —does it? Is that the reason that lately I’ve been feeling strangely dissatisfied and empty after reading/watching? Will I feel like this when I eventually have sex?? (still a virgin, mainly for dysphoria reasons)

I found all this stuff online that says porn addictions can screw you over for life, that you can’t find sexual satisfaction with a partner.

Should I cut back?

I don’t normally masturbate while consuming porn. I feel too ashamed. I normally just sit there and read/watch.

Am I a porn addict?????? Should I quit reading smut? Help.

If you can’t tell, I wasn’t raised in a very sex positive environment and I feel very ashamed. I don’t really know who to talk to and I just feel very guilty so I’m resorting to an anonymous ask on Tumblr.

If you read this, thank you for taking the time. I appreciate it.

— Jason

hi Jason,

I don't think you're a porn addict. I think you're probably just an anxious 20 year old from a pretty restrictive background and now that you have a little more freedom you're kind of nervous about it, which is very normal.

I want to be super clear: written porn is porn. porn is any sexually explicit material designed to titillate; it's existed since WAY before the moving picture existed and it will exist long after the internet has crumbled to dust. people like porn! and it's okay to like porn. the text-based stuff is particularly high on the list of porn that's pretty unambiguously fine, morally-speaking, because you never have to worry that the performer you're watching has had their video stolen by pornhub or that, god forbid, anyone onscreen isn't a willing participant, but I want to be super clear that liking sexually explicit photos or videos of real people is also 100% fine.

obviously I have no idea what study you read, but I'd be cautious about any study being boiled down to such black and white, attention-grabbing headlines. you can interpret a study to mean virtually anything if you want to, and there are a lot of interest groups with a vested interest in demonizing porn. if reading smutty fan fic makes you happy and isn't interfering with the rest of your life, you should do that.

unfortunately it sounds like it's not making you happy lately, dissatisfied and empty feelings. in the kindest way possible, I don't think much of that is being caused by the porn itself. it sounds like it's coming from your gnawing worry that you're a porn addict. maybe it's best to take a little step away from porn and smutty fic for a while, if only until you feel able to engage with it without feeling bad.

also, speaking of porn addiction: that's a very dubious condition, and one that's not scientifically or medically recognized. to be certain, people can develop a reliance on porn that disrupts their daily function and can wreak havoc on their lives, but that's true of anything that causes your brain to spit out happy chemicals. anything that become a maladaptive coping mechanism, including and especially things that are fine and even necessary in small doses. sleeping, exercising, and going shopping are all things that can be life-ruining if done to harmful excess, but that doesn't mean you're doing anything wrong if you like to sleep in, go for runs, or browse your favorite online stores every once in a while.

if reading smut isn't causing you to skip out on your more important obligations, fail to take care of yourself, or bringing on bankruptcy, I think you're probably alright. the biggest danger I see here is you beating yourself over the head with your own anxiety about this, which may be a sign that it's a good idea to take a step back for entirely different reasons than you were worried about.

[cara-delaney-author]

One thing that's been gnawing at me about the new Hbomb video and the... everything in it is the realisation how some people are "I always knew XYZ was a plagiarist!"

Okay, that is great. Genuinely, I'm happy that you recognised it early. But that is so, so hard to do nowadays. There's genuinely so much plagiarism out there, and it's incredibly exhausting to try and spot it.

Not just because a lot of plagiarists hide it with a lot of effort. But because there is so much stuff out there, it's impossible to be able to recognise it all. That's what makes it so easy to get away with it for so long - there's a decent chance it just gets lost in the noise, and nobody ever hits both your content and your plagiarised sources close enough together to notice.

How do I know this? Because I used to enjoy two channels run by the same person - one about media (primarily gaming, mostly sci-fi and horror), and the second channel was a "tales" channel, dedicated to recounting true stories, or urban legends. Think the Franklin expedition, the Bloop, or Dyatlov pass.

Well, I say "recounting", but during the video about the Donner Party I realised that I was listening word for word to the Wikipedia article about the incident. I'm not kidding, I pulled up the article and just. Read along. For the entire rest of the video.

Turns out almost all of the videos on that second channel are like this. No, there is never a single source cited (which I didn't realise because I was watching on the PS4 and didn't see the description), and a cursory glance at the comments showed nobody ever mentioning this. I know I only noticed because I'd looked up the Donner Party earlier that week (which is why I was watching the video), and recognised some of the specific phrasing. Until that point, the video had been presented as if the Youtuber was reading from his own notes, sort of like a half-freeform presentation based off of bullet points. Which it very clearly wasn't, now that I went and checked half a dozen of his videos and found the exact same thing happening in every single one. A few minutes of intro written (hopefully) by the Youtuber himself, and then just a reading of the Wikipedia article with no attribution whatsoever.

So now I can't enjoy either channel anymore, because I have to assume the main channel is also 100% just someone else's words read out loud without the original creators' permission. And even if it isn't? The whole thing is soured for me now regardless.

My point is that a lot of systems today are set up to enable this kind of behaviour, from the absolute deluge of "content" to the easy to replicate tricks like flipping footage and applying filters to trick people into not recognising it as stolen. And then the piece moves on too quickly for the average viewer to stop and wonder why something might feel familiar.

Nobody is a bad person for not recognising plagiarism, even if it is incredibly blatant in hindsight. But if you see a video or read a long essay, that makes grand claims and shows you a lot of different things, but never cites any sources... if you have a few minutes, maybe check to make sure you're not consuming something that was wholecloth stolen from more deserving creators.

[remushrts]

hihi I love your fics n this is my first time requesting :]

may I request a Barty Crouch jr x romantic!amab!reader fluff fic?

Something, something along the lines of the slytherin skittles (or just reader and barty, your call) up on the astronomy tower after curfew (snuck out n’ stuff), and then reader fell asleep on Barty while they were pointing out all the constellations they could see?

thank you so much if you write this, and absolutely no pressure at all if you don’t want to! <3

Stargazing

— pairing: barty crouch jr x amab!reader

— a/n: hii, thank you so much for requesting, i hope you enjoy it, i tried my best!! it's also my first time writing for amab!reader, so let me know if it's okay <3 barty might be a little ooc for what it's used to but i love the idea of a soft barty only with his partner (feel totally free to request again if you want him more chaotic, i'll gladly write that!!)

— warnings: mostly fluff, mention of smoking pot (barty is a little high, reader is open to interpretation)

For the first time in years, maybe, Barty doesn't feel like talking.

Not that he would need to anyway, the silence that lingered between you was comfortable enough to allow that, but still, he never felt so at peace.

He thinks it's about you. It's your presence, the way your hair tickles the skin of his neck where your head lays, gentle weight settling on his chest. When he commented that with Regulus, he said Barty should get a weighted blanket. He thinks you beat it by at least hundred times. Weighted blankets wouldn't do half of what you do to him. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

To be fair, you wouldn't either. Not even with the smell around you, weed and smoke and the stolen candies from the kitchen that lay unfinished next to you. Not when you have Barty's heartbeat just above your ear, his voice just loud enough to rumble across your chest when he speaks. You have no idea what he's saying anymore, but it's just so nice to hear him talk.

"This meteor shower is supposed to be rare. You, baby, are supposed to watch." His voice is full of taunt, the smug on his face when he catches your eyes sneaking to him.

"Yeah, Crouch?" You smile back at him, snuggling closer to him as if there was a way to get closer.

"Uhm, can look at me anytime, baby." His hand tugs at your chin, grin wide as he gently pushes it upwards, to the sky. It's beautiful tonight, clear vision from the shooting stars that light up the sky for brief moments before they disappear. "We should make it ours." A beat of silence has passed and you think you've lost something. He makes no sense.

"The stars?" You ask, smile slipping to your lips with no resistance.

"All of it. Each wish from those, they're all ours now. The planets too. All ours..." He points out, following an imaginary trace from the meteor that fell just a moment ago. You blinked, looked over at Barty again, and it's gone.

"I thought you didn't believe this crap?" You say, voice no softer than a whisper, but Barty catches the tease.

"Oh, baby, don't offend me." He lets out a breathy laugh, flicking the side of your head, but not letting you move it either. "I'm taking all the wishes I can for you, angel." The pet names drips from his lips, he has a tendency of saying them a lot when he gets high. You're always "baby", always "angel", always "pretty boy". There's a lack of something on his tone, his arrogance or taunting, but you're buying it. It's strange seeing him so soft, but you adore it, every moment.

You nod against his chest, his rambling and the raspy tone pushing you towards a state you've been trying to avoid, sleep claiming your body in a slow but sure pace. You think Barty can feel it either.

"Thanks, B..." You mumble, getting more comfortable on his chest.

"Anything for my boy." He says, no edge of intention to his words, his hand slipping around you waist to hold you close. His fingers trace your hip bone, softly.

His boy, his words echo on your chest, soft, soft. You could be that, if he kept saying it with that voice. Especially his. You're convinced he got you folded in half with that tone alone. He kisses the corner of your lips, thumb holding your chin in place. He begins to talk about the constellations again, not a single coherent idea to the textbooks you've learned, but just as poetical. You're pretty sure you hear he names a star after you before you fall asleep.

[bloodfreak-boyking]

i literally can't stop thinking about shifter!dean so i curse thee with a brain dump ficlet. cw for non-con groping & kissing

---

"See, deep down, I'm just jealous. You got friends, you could have a life," the shifter said, Dean's stolen face barely visible in the dim sewer light. His eyes flicked between Sam's, hurt and something unidentifiable swimming in them. "Me?" He leaned in closer, the space between them growing hot and humid. Sam could feel the shifter's breath on his cheek. "I know I'm a freak."

Sam scowled, glaring the creature down. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dean was a lot of things; a nerd, a jerk, disgustingly charming, but not a freak. That title was reserved for Sam.

A grin twitched across the shifter's lips. "Oh, you don't know, do you?" it said, amusement thick in his voice.

Sam knew he should ignore it, this impulse to get insight into his brother's mind, his thoughts and feelings that he kept held so closely to his chest. The thing would probably lie anyway. But Sam was never good at resisting temptation. "Know what?"

Not-Dean was suddenly straddling Sam's thighs, a lascivious smile on his face. Sam instinctively tried to move away, but the rope kept him from doing much more than squirming under the creature's weight. A low chuckle rumbled in its chest. "Dean here?" It shoved its hand between them, roughly palming Sam through worn denim. Sam tried to stifle a gasp, only half succeeding. "He wants you. Hell, he's wanted you since he was seventeen."

Sam felt frozen, shock making his limbs feel numb. Or maybe that was the rope cutting off his circulation, he couldn't really spare the brain power to tell. "Wh-what? No, you...you're lying."

The shifter leaned in closer, nipping at Sam's earlobe. "Oh, the things he wants to do to you." He ground his hips down against Sam's lap forcefully. "His sweet little Sammy."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam registered Not-Dean was hard. Another sharp bite, this time to the hinge of his jaw, had him letting out a startled yelp.

The shifter groaned against his skin. "God what he would give to hear you make noises like that." It grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, yanking down on it hard. Sam, in an attempt to stifle a loud cry, let a pitiful whimper slip past his lips instead. The creature's eyelids fluttered shut. "Fuck, yeah, just like that."

Warm, plush lips were suddenly on him, sliding against his stock-still ones. Before his brain could send the message of no bad no, his own lips were moving. The shifter growled and pulled his head back further, drawing a gasp out of Sam and giving himself an opening to lick deep into Sam's mouth. A soft moan escaped Sam. What could he say? The thing could kiss. Dean could kiss.

It was like a bucket of ice water was dumped on him. He twisted his head away, forcibly breaking the kiss. His heart was hammering in his chest and his stomach flipped and the worst part was, Sam couldn't tell if it was disgust or...

The shifter slowly stood, still trying to catch its breath. It reached down and grabbed one of their duffel bags, swinging it over his shoulder. "Well, it's been great, y'know, shattering your worldview and all," he looked Sam up and down once more, predatory, "but I've got a hot date with lovely little Becky."

...

"Well that's 'cause you're a freak," Dean, the real Dean, teased from behind the wheel as Saint Louis disappeared behind them.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, thanks," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"Well I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you, all the way."

"Yeah, I know you are." Sam looked down at his hands, twisting them nervously in his lap. The shifter's words bounced around his brain: He wants you. He shifted in his seat and bit his lip, the next part of the memory playing involuntarily.

Dean shot him a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Dean...um..." Sam readjusted in his seat again, the Impala suddenly feeling claustrophobically small. "Well, I, uh-"

"C'mon Sammy, spit it out."

"The...the, uh, shifter. It...well it...there's something..."

Dean shot him an annoyed glare "Sam," he admonished.

"Do you want me?" Sam blurted out, his face blooming scarlet and his skin too hot.

Dean's grip tightened on the wheel. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "What?" His voice was too calm, too measured.

"The shifter, it said you wanted me. It...it kissed me. Do...do you want me that way, Dean?"

Dean was clenching his teeth so hard that Sam could've sworn he heard his jaw creaking. His knuckles were white on the wheel and his face, where Sam expected to see fiery red skin, angry or embarrassed, was drained of all color. Dean didn't respond or even look at Sam, just turned up the radio so loud that neither could hear themselves think.

Sam's stomach was in knots again, and this time, it was worse: he knew it wasn't disgust.

[ohsohoney]

When it comes to love you're just as blinded.

Part Seven

Eminem x Musician

Summary: It starts with a drunk embarrassing video, it spirals into something a whole lot more.

Note: Seven!! Sorry it's taken a while, I've been busy with life and went away with some friends, but it's finally here! It's a long one too, so hoping it makes up for the wait. Also, I write music but fuckkk is it hard trying to actually rap, so this is just a forewarning to everyone seeing as there's a scene in this part that involves exactly that! Hope you enjoy it anyway:) Thank you for all the love on this series!

| Set in 2014, just after the release of LP 2

taglist: @thelastemzy

Masterlist

“What’s your favourite chocolate?” I wondered around the Twizzler I’d gone ahead and stolen from the bag he’d gotten at the 7-Eleven. We’d been driving for a little while now, just under a half hour if I had to guess, and between us we had already succumbed to three short-lived encounters with brain freeze, all down to the Slurpee we continued to keep sharing. 

“Like brand?” Marshall questioned me, face wrinkling in confusion as he made another left hand turn, fingers loosening around the steering wheel when it righted itself.

“No,” I shook my head in answer, chewing on the red stick before I held out its end to Em when he tipped his chin in an asking gesture, “I don't know. Like, type?”

He had to think about it for a second, jaw working against the chewy sweet whilst his eyes continued to trail the length of road ahead. “Fuck, I don’ know. Like a Hershey’s maybe?”

I pulled a face at the reply, “Boring. Figured you might say M&M’s or something. Bring a little irony to the table, you know?”

Marshall’s head tilted sideways to level me with a snide look before he stole the next Twizzler right from out of my hand, “Hilarious.” He deadpanned as he took a big bite, “Come on then, Judge Judy. Tell me yours.”

Even whilst wrinkling my nose at his reference to the Tv Judge, I was quick with my retort, “Easy. Can’t go wrong with a Flake or a KitKat.”

“Heard of that first one.” Marshall mentioned, face dropping its previous snark as he pondered on my answer, “Ain’t ever tried it though.”

My eyes widened as I simultaneously turned to face him, ignoring the way my knee knocked against the centre console in my haste. “Oh, you’ve got to! It’s honest to God like Heaven melting in your mouth.”

With an unconvinced brow, Marshall just blew out a breath and shook his head at me. “But a KitKat?” He added after a second passed, “I don’t know. I mean, a chunky I could prolly get behind.”

My upper lip curled, “A chunky, really? What are you, twelve?”

Marshall returned the quip with a stupid look and then stole the rest of the Twizzler pack as a form of retaliation.

I rolled my eyes and it wasn’t long before he waved the topic away, claiming it was stupid anyway because Oreos were supposedly where it was at. An opinion which was strong enough steered us onto a whole new debate: biscuits vs cookies. 

I was still fighting for my life by the time Em eventually pulled the car off to the side, rolling up onto a curb outside a strip of buildings that appeared to get a whole lot of use. “All I’m saying is that a cookie is a kind of biscuit, right? So what the fuck sense does it make to claim that they’re all cookies?”

We’d since come to a slow stop, so confused I pivoted in my seat to look around us with a slight frown, catching sight of a bar on the very corner, a stretch of offices sat on the opposing side, and a huge block building that had long been dubbed ‘Saint Andrew’s’.

“This some sort of convent?” I wondered out loud whilst Marshall simply switched off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. When I glanced over at him again I found him already wearing an amused smirk, one which seemed to brighten at my words, though he just shook his head at my question. It was then that he chose to jump out. “Marsh?”

I was left with the low sound of his chuckle just as the door clicked shut behind him, leaving me in sudden silence whilst I watched the man round the front of the car. Blinking, I could only move to follow him, undoing my belt and finishing the last of the Slurpee before my door was opening all on its own. I raised a brow at Em’s gentlemanly act when I climbed out to join him on the pavement, but kept quiet about it as he shut the door behind me and locked up.

“Thanks.” I breathed out before peering around us once more, taking in the noisy street and the rowdy crowd that was gathered inside the bar a couple car lengths away. “Will you tell me where we are now though?”

“And spoil all the fun?” Marshall smirked, eyes glistening now as he backed away from the curb to start up the set of stairs leading into the big block building that had caught my eye a minute earlier. 

My face flattened, “You’re the only one having fun here.”

The grin he flashed me was cheeky and only lasted that of a split second before he was gesturing me to follow him up, tucking his hands away in his pockets when we finally reached the top step and came to a stop in front of a pair of heavy wooden doors that gave off such a retro feel. 

Staying quiet, Marshall was quick to push through them, as though he’d done it a thousand times before, slipping inside and holding the bottom plank open with just a foot so that I could join him. I wrapped my arms around myself slightly as the door stilted shut behind us, the sound echoing out. 

As I walked a little further inside, my gaze caught on the building’s lofty interior, a total contrast from both its outer disguise and what I’d first expected. It was a large lobby of sorts; four long tables were stationed in the very centre, a short stretch away from a snazzy looking bar detailed with ebony wood and warm lighting in the back, and adjacent to a set of stairs which led upwards.

I glanced back over at Em, who appeared to be watching me rather than taking in the room. I felt myself flush lightly under his gaze but quick to cover it up as I took another glance around, noting a different set of double doors sat on the other side of the room and a couple of sofas dotted around by the surrounding walls. I swallowed lightly before turning back to him, “Bit early to be drinking, no?”

It was a joke, a silly one seeing as he’d been sober for years, but one which seemed to loosen the atmosphere around us further as his mouth quirked upwards slightly and he moved to walk once more, nodding his head at me to follow. 

Follow I did, eyes catching on all sorts of details the building had to offer as he led me across the room and through the mentioned pair of doors, turning away from what appeared to be the ‘main event’ (a rather large hall decked out with a stage and a plethora of seating rows) so that he could instead jog down a hall full of metal stairs. 

The heavy door at the very bottom opened with a long squeak and although there had been people dotting the building here and there as we’d walked through, I took quick note of the small group which resided down here. There were only about six of them, from what I could first tell, the majority messing about with wires and other equipment by a platform stage whilst another two stood behind what looked to be a bar. 

My attention was ultimately caught though by the two men bickering back and forth by the side of the stage, just in front of a DJ booth.

“Fuck you, man. I’ma do what I like!” The first one spat, nose wrinkled as he swiped a microphone right from out of the other man’s hand. He was a few inches shorter than the latter but didn’t seem to mind, nor care, about that fact as he practically tiptoed to better get in the guy’s face. 

“Awh Jesus man, Soup! Why you always clownin’ around?” The second blew out, tossing the rest of the mic’s lead his way as he swatted at the air, “I mean, come on. You always tryna switch shit up when shit don’ need to be switched up!”

Soup? If that really was his name, didn’t seem to much care about his mate’s lack of excitement for whatever plans he had brewing as he fumbled with the jack lead and jumped back at him to defend himself. “I ain’t clownin’, dawg! Just trust me here on this one, this is gone bring a whole load’a new people in, D! I just know they gone be linin’ up out the door to get their hands on this stuff.”

“We ain’t sellin’ fuckin’ club merch, Soup. How many times I gotta say it?” ‘D’ retorted and shook his head as he turned his back on the other man to grab the rest of the equipment they’d obviously been unboxing.

“Yo, when have I ever been wrong ‘bout shit like this?” Soup followed up, unrelenting as he dragged the mic along with him, creating enough of a trip hazard that I worried when a young guy in a yellow cap swerved on past him. But it appeared that everyone here was far too used to the duo’s antics because the man in the cap skipped over the lead with an ease that looked utterly effortless, making it to the bar in one piece whilst the other two continued on none the wiser.

“How ‘bout every damn time?” D huffed with a look thrown over his shoulder, before he then sighed, “We stick to what we know, man. Stop houndin’ me with all this other crap.”

It was just as Soup opened his mouth to argue his case yet again that Marshall laughed from beside me, making me jump ever so as the noise rang out across the room. Heads spun in our direction then, most eyes widening at the sight of the infamous newcomer but mine were caught on the matching set of grins that Em was immediately met with when kicked off the wall he’d been leaning against, content with having watched the argument play out.

“Mickey, my man!” D hollered, dropping what he held back into the box to meet Marshall halfway. 

“Thought I told you to stop callin’ me that.” But even with the snippy retort, Em was smiling as the two of them clapped hands, sharing a short embrace before Soup wormed his way between them. 

D shook his head as he took a large step back, although the man was still grinning, eyes captured on the two friends, “Shit, man. It’s good to see you.”

Marshall just smiled before he turned to the shorter man and clapped him on the back, “How you doin’, Soup?” He let his hood fall back as he stood before the small group around us, seeming to become more alive in their presence, “Still mouthin’ off, I see.”

My own lips quirked up at that, watching the three of them from the sidelines. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that they had history, all of them sharing an easy comradery that I hadn’t much seen yet with Em since I’d first arrived, and already I was hooked on watching it all play out.

“I ain’t mouthin’ off, man. This idea’s the real deal!” Soup countered and he was smiling so wide that I could see the silver tooth that was embedded where his front left should have been over from where I stood. “Genius even! Could see it settin’ us up ‘til The Jam finally passes.”

I had no idea what the fuck ‘The Jam’ was but I had a calculating thought as to what the underground level of Saint Andrew’s supposedly was now. It was a little surreal once I’d latched onto the idea, in truth, never having figured I’d be standing in The Shelter of all places. The building was notorious on its own, having hosted a plethora of artists up in the main hall, people like Nirvana, R.E.M., The Beastie Boys, Iggy Pop, Blur, and Bob Dylan. And so I kicked myself for not having realised it sooner, the venue truly was one of the best in the city! Then again, I’d only ever really heard it iconically dubbed as The Shelter.

Marshall appeared to look back over at me then as he shook his head at Soup’s justification, grin softening ever so. I smiled back at him, gaze flickering over the expanse of his face, taking in what I could.

“Yo, come on over.” He said, voice travelling over to me without him even having to yell. The two men seemed to recognise my presence then as they turned to get a good glance at just who Em seemed to be speaking to. So, accompanied by only a little trepidation, I walked over to meet them, D eyes calculating whilst Soup’s lips pursed in an act of surprise, his eyes raking over me.

“Woo, Slim. And they claim you gotta type!” Soup all but whistled at my approach, earning a raised brow from me and a hearty backhand from his promoter friend. 

Marshall just rolled his eyes, seemingly used to it, arm stretching out to welcome me into the odd triangle they’d created, an action I allowed even as his hand came to rest on the small of my back. “Ignore Soup, he ain’t never been near a lady.” 

Blowing out an unexpected chuckle, I pressed my lips together before they eventually settled into akin to a smirk, eyes flitting over the two men. “Most would beg to differ with those pretty eyes.” I quipped, ignoring the man’s previous remark but filing it away for later.

Soup blinked at the obvious complement, seemingly dazed for a split second before he bounced back with a kilowatt grin. He looked between Marshall and D smugly, batting his eyelashes. “Y’all see?” He said, before he turned to me, “I been tellin’ ‘em, baby. But do they listen? No.”

D rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics, apparently done with him as he shoved Soup hard enough for the man to stumble slightly to the side, ignoring the scowl he got in turn whilst Marshall just snorted, the hand on my back unmoving. “You really gone dropped yourself in it now.” D chuckled to him, peering over at me with a sweet smile that warmed his face whilst Soup tried to right himself, “What, Mickey didn’t warn you?”

“Mickey?” I wondered, eyes flitting between the two. I grinned when Em groaned lowly, tossing his head back a tad.

D laughed at my ask, the sound bright in the shrouded shadows of which lower levels of the building offered, “As a kid he had these giant fuckin’ ears, his momma called him it the first time she picked him up from school and well, it sorta stuck.”

“Actually?” I looked back over at Marshall with an almost adoring face, peering past the brim of his cap to get a better look at his ears, “Oh my god, I can actually see it now!”

I joined D in his snickering after, muffling my amusement slightly when Em’s eyes narrowed a tad in a playful way, his hand dropping from my lower back to pinch my furthest hip. I raised my own in a silent surrender, but his settled there. 

“Yeah, yeah. Eat it up.” The man scoffed whilst he shook his head at us, pointing an accusing finger over at D, who’d since settled a hand on his stomach to keep from bowling over, “You know I’ma have to get you back for that one.”

D merely waved the warning away, just as Soup slid on over to pipe up once more, “Ayo, you gone introduce us to yo girl then, Slim, or you just waitin’ on me to work my magic?” He asked around a smug smile, shucking the collar of his heavy jacket before he flashed me a flirty look, “Homegirl’s got a real pretty voice, too. Where you from, baby?”

Never had I ever had someone be so blatant, I was honestly unsure if he was just messing around in hopes to annoy Em or if he was actually trying his luck with me. A little wide eyed, I looked back at Marshall stumped. The man’s face had flattened a tad at Soup’s remarks but his smirk was still ever present.

“Lay off it, man.” D sighed before Marshall could say anything at all, cheek dimpling as he shook his head once more at the shorter man. 

“I’m just sayin’!” Soup proclaimed before he spun back around to face Em, “A girl that fine is gone get snatched up real quick, man.”

“Keep talkin’ and you might not keep your tongue.” Marshall responded calmly enough, though it shocked me enough to have me keeping quiet as the man stared back at Soup unblinkingly, lifting an eyebrow at him whilst his hand continued to reside at my hip.

“Oo and the claws have come out!” D cut in with a whoop, obviously humoured by it all, but his response was enough to have Marshall rolling his eyes and for another small smirk to toy at the corner of his lips.

Soup grinned as well, hands held up in a placating gesture, “You know I mean no harm, Slim.”

“Yeah, you ain’t never mean it.” Marshall shot back around a low chuckle, clucking his tongue when Soup immediately tried to argue his case, rapidly mentioning a house fire, some sort of robbery that had gone wrong and then an accidental shooting far too quickly for me to really ask anymore about it, because Em chose then to speak over him, ultimately cutting him off. “You done?”

With a huff, Soup let up. “I was just sayin’.”

D snorted, “When the hell are you not just sayin’, my man."

Marshall shook his head at the duo and wet his lower lip before he finally moved to introduce us, although it was also in that moment that his hand finally slipped away. The lack of it had me blinking. 

“Boys, this is Elia. El, this here is Soup and Drew.” Drew shot me a smile alongside a slight tilt of his chin, whilst Soup just wiggled his brow. Marshall continued on with a swift jab to the latter’s abdomen, ignoring the slight squark given, “Known these guys since middle school.”

I tried to add up the age in my head, forever baffled by the difference in education here to that back home. Em must have realised it too, because his next smile was wry and knowing.

“‘Bout ten, if I had to guess.” He mentioned just to settle the matter for me, before he looked back at D and Soup to explain, “Girl’s from London, they do shit different over there.”

I rolled my eyes, though my smile gave away to the fact that he’d amused me with his explanation. Drew nodded in understanding whilst Soup– well, he was Soup, “Oh shit! I thought all them talked real classy.”

My brow rose all on its own, “This your way of saying I’m not classy?”

His eyes grew huge as he realised his mistake, stuttering to correct himself and stumbling ever so to be sure of it, “Nah, no! What? I jus’– I meant it like–” He spluttered before he finally landed on, “I said you had a real pretty voice!”

Snorting, I let myself smile which appeared to ease the man’s evident worry over having offended me and had the remaining two snickering between themselves. He shot the pair of them a scathing look and elbowed Drew, who in return just laughed that little bit harder.

“Shut it.”

I almost felt bad. Peering back over at Soup, I eventually spoke, “You’re all good. I was just teasing.”

“Teasin’.” Soup seemed to linger on the word, twirling it over his tongue and around his mouth as he muttered the word over again, lower lip turning itself out in thought. “Dope.”

Marshall shook his head with a huff before his eyes eventually landed on me once more, I widened my own in jest, but the wordless moment was cut short by D. “Aye, you ain’t the same Elia that sung Sinnerman are you?”

My head jolted back ever so slightly in surprise. Sinnerman had been an early days cover, one from when I’d been busking in pubs way back when and of the few that had been filmed on a shaky camcorder and uploaded to the internet by some random patron. I hadn’t thought of the video in well over a decade, but remembered it had managed to gather a large enough viewing at some point that it had dragged more people into the pub to see me.

Fishmouthing slightly, I nodded just the once. “Yeah. God, yeah. Wow, you saw that?”

Marshall’s brow had since furrowed, watching the conversation play out between us just as Drew’s face brightened considerably. “Hell yeah I saw that! That shit was cold, girl. Remembered hearin’ your voice and thinkin’ 'she’s gone make it someday.” He told me, making me flush a tad at the praise, “‘n I was right.” He continued on, nudging his chin over in my direction with a thoughtful smile, “Knew I recognised you from somewhere. Saw one of your shows when I was last in LA, couple years back now though.”

I actually giggled at that, fingers jumping up to cover my mouth whilst I shook my head slightly, “That’s insane.”

“Hold up,” Soup interrupted, a bemused look marring his face, “So you famous too? You ‘member how I just said you was fine, yeah?”

“Soup, man.” Marshall warned around a put upon sigh.

“I’m jus–”

“Just sayin’. Yeah, we know.” Drew finished for him, smirking as he rolled his brown eyes.

Chuckling, I went a little easy on the former, “I’ll make sure to remember.”

Soup perked up at that, tossing the other two a prideful look, whilst Em’s gaze turned Heavenwards. 

It was then that Drew turned to pick up the equipment he’d since dropped, the three of us following him as he spoke, “So what you doin’ down in these parts anyway? Figured you’d be workin’ or some shit ‘cause last we saw you was way back in December.” He threw a couple of cables Soup’s way, huffing out a soft chuckle when the man fumbled to catch them, earning himself a glare he didn’t respond to. “Made a fuckton of sales then though. Got me thinkin’ maybe you should show your face ‘round here more often. We all know those magazines don’t want it no more.”

Marshall flipped him off but came to a stand beside him, reaching inside the box to help out. “Still as unfunny as ever, D.” He replied, handing me a couple of packs to hold onto whilst he grabbed a few more, “Was showin’ Ms. London over there the neighbourhood, so I thought I’d stop in to see how you two knuckleheads were doin’ without me.”

“Hey we survived this long!” Soup exclaimed to him around a laugh, struggling with a mic stand he’d since dragged up onto the stage.

“Don’t I know it.” Drew murmured in a funny sort of self-suffering way that made me grin, “You take her to Cow’s head?”

The question had Marshall rolling his eyes as the man sorted through the packs he’d gathered, me aiding with the process whilst I listened. “Shithole’s gone be there longer than I ever will be, figured I’d have time.”

D blew out a chuckle, “Ain’t that the truth.”

“Red.” I mentioned, handing back the pack Marshall had attempted to give me, fingers brushing over the back of his as he dipped his chin in a show of acknowledgement. “What’s the Cow’s head anyway?”

“Old ice-cream stand on Mack. Used to use it during drivebys or to just deal. You remember Jimmy? He still works that corner.” Drew explained, aiming that last bit over at Em, which ended up making the man chuckle around a small tutting sound. D continued on though, for my supposed benefit, “But mostly it was just a place people got caught hookin’ up behind.”

Feeling bold, I was quick to quip, “And I paint you as that type of girl, do I, D?”

Widening my stare up at the man when his head darted backwards with a shuttered expression, Marshall could only snicker beside me. “Awh, come on, be nice.” He said, though his smile was jeering, “I tell you, Drew’s a real feminist.”

Sharing a smile with him, I was quick to look back at the man in question, who in turn merely tossed another pack at Em, who narrowly avoided it hitting him upside the head. “Asshole.” Drew sniped, “A guy dates one vegan chick and a brother never lets him live it down.”

“It weren’t ‘cause she didn’t like meat, man!” Soup added his two cents in, smile smug as he propped himself up on the mic stand, “It was ‘cause she didn’t - like - meat!”

Marshall’s loud laugh had me looking up, instantly invested in watching the way his eyes closed with the action and how his cheeks then appled. He caught me watching him when he lowered his head and rolled his eyes fondly at his friend, figuring I’d only been staring because I hadn’t caught onto Soup’s joke, “Next person she dated was this vampy chick who worked at Chilly's.”

My mouth formed into an ‘o’ shape before I was tittering away too, much to Drew’s obvious displeasure, the man waved the three of us away with a lazy hand before he carried on hooking up a couple mics.

It continued on that way for a short while, me listening to the trios odd stories and funny tales from their youth whilst Drew and Soup grew comfortable enough to ask me a little more about myself. Though both of them were wholly invested in the story of how Marshall and I met, Soup latching onto it before I could think about where the explanation might lead.

“Come on then, woman.” The man was quick to start, jerking his head at me in a sudden rush of enthusiasm as he jumped past the DJ booth, “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

My forehead pinched in confusion as I pushed myself up from where I’d been crouching down by an amp. It was an older model and the fuse at the back really needed to be resoldered, but it would work for a while longer. I looked over at the man and his newfound excitement, brows furrowing further, “What?”

Soup just waved me over though to where he was now centred midstage. “You heard me, get yo ass up here!”

I could only look to Em then and when he didn’t offer me anything other than an amused shrug, cheek twitching, I turned to Drew.

The tall man simply raised his hands before he shrugged too, smiling ever so sweetly. “Need to mic check anyway,” He mentioned, jutting his chin over to where Soup continued to stand, “I propose a battle.”

“Hell yeah, man!” Soup hollered loudly, already moving to grab a set of mics from the front panel, sending an audible squeak through the room that had most of its occupants wincing. 

“Not happening.” I quickly shot down, shaking my head as I moved away from the amp– and therefore the stage. 

“Why, you scared?” Soup prodded mockingly, earning a low ‘ooh’ from both Marshall and Drew. 

“Terrified.” Came my deadened retort, before I chewed at the inside of my cheek, gaze flitting back and forth between Soup and the duo perched by the side of the deck. “There’s no way I’m doing it.” I added, furthering my previous answer.

“Don’t have to be long. A minute max.” Drew assured me, already moving to work the amp that the mics were connected to. My eyes widened at the move, flicking back to Em in one final plea.

“Don’t look at me.” The older man laughed, his blue eyes shining. “I already done did my time here.”

Way to rub it in, I thought to myself before looking towards the stage with a pinched expression. 

One final glance between the three men and I knew I couldn’t say no, not without a fight at the very least, so I let go of the heavy breath I was holding and took a big step up onto the stage’s panelling, holding out a hand to Soup for the remaining microphone. “Don’t say I never did nothing.” I heard myself say, earning a round of chuckles just as D finished setting up and Soup started to stretch theatrically. “I hate you all.”

“El-i-a.” Marshall started up and immediately my head snapped over to find him stood by the front of the stage, hands circling his mouth. “El-i-a!” He chanted again right as a steady beat came through the overhead speakers. I felt my stomach flip and was quick to shoot the man a scathing glare, not that Em minded it, continuing to grin up at me. Smug as could be.

It was that, I supposed, which had me forcing back the bile that was now building, enough to try and shake the nerves away too. I could do it, I breathed in deeply, it was just a little fun. Nothing unlike what Danny and I used to do as kids, making breakfast whilst mum was dead asleep in the next room or off getting high someplace else.

“You ready, Limey?” Soup snarked, but it only proved to further stoke that fire that had started. 

“You first.” 

Soup dipped his head before he started bouncing it to the rhythm, torso soon following it. I tensed as I waited for his first line, sole focus on the man stood across from me and wondering how the fuck people did this in front of such a huge crowd. All I could do was pray that I didn’t embarrass myself too much.

“See, this here is a little white girl, 

Who’s momma told her she could have the whole wide-world,

But just ‘cause she got Slim wrapped ‘round her fin-ger,

Don’t mean that my boy’s ever gonna ring her,

He’s a wraith, yeah, which means he never ling-ers,

Have her sleepin’ in his bed ‘fore he finds another singer.

And that’s not on me clownin’ girl, I’ve seen it,

He’ll wrap and tap, and then he’ll jus’ go ‘n leave it,

You cute and all but you ain’t nothin’ spec-ial,

We all know white girls ain’t on a brother’s lev-el,

So while you thinkin’ you out here makin’ it big,

Jus’ remember who’s runnin’ this motherfuckin’ gig.”

Pursing my lips to keep from grinning too broadly– an act to keep up the facade that this was a very real battle and that his words had actually stung me– I then booed the performance whilst the rest of the room applauded, a few laughs and cheers echoing out around us. “Alright, I see. That’s how it’s gonna be.”

Soup shrugged cooly, though his smile was wide and teasing. “I went easy on you, girl.”

I hummed disbelievingly, then looked over my shoulder at Drew, who nodded in understanding, moving to continue the beat. I sucked in a small breath and attempted to feel the rhythm, the way it pulsed beneath my feet and how it seemed to jump between my ribs. 

It was a split second decision I made to glance over at Marshall in the next moment which came and although he stood surly, arms crossed over his chest whilst he waited for me to start, his eyes were watching, anticipating. Between us we’d yet to work on any real music and so I figured this could be my shot to show him what I was really made of.

I inhaled.

“Man, you know for a rapper I think you’re missing one restriction,

The same type they tell kids is in the terms ‘n conditions, 

When they try and ride the big boy rides at the theme park, 

Only to find out that they went and fucking missed the mark.

I mean, I guess you’re kinda cute for a– short guy,

But kings are made, baby, so I won’t spin you a lie,

‘Bout how it’s okay to only miss a couple inches,

‘Cause it's one thing height wise, but your dick looks like the Grinches.

And I know I should probably stop before I hurt your ego,

But with a name like Soup that ships since sailed, amigo,

Like I can’t help but wonder who’d your mother hate more?

You, or that motherfucking grocery store.”

A loud chorus of applause went up as soon as the beat dropped, leaving me looking back at Soup’s slack jaw in the stooped light. It was only when Drew whooped right by my ear that I realised he’d jumped past the booth to drag both Soup and I into his hold, shaking our shoulders hard enough to rattle the pair of us. 

I let the mic slip slightly in my hold, arm dropping to my side as I casted a slow glance out at the audience, finding that a few more people had slipped into the room since we’d started the stupid battle. My chest tightened a little at the realisation but it was easy to let go of the anxiety when Drew was all but bouncing beside me.

“Damn, girl! That was cold, honestly thought Soup would have you there.” D grinned, looking down at me whilst Soup managed to release himself from the taller man’s hold. “You did anything like this before?” He asked and I had to shake my head.

“Hang on. You just butchered and served me up on a plate, ‘n now you gone deny not ever battlin’ before?” Soup spluttered, eyes wide as dinner plates, enough though to match his growing grin, “Woman, you don’t expect me to really believe you.”

Laughing, I tried to rally, but it was then that another body joined the masses, sliding in beside me. It was their appearance that had Drew’s arm loosening its hold on me. 

“She ain’t lyin’. I’ve heard her spit a little before, I won’t deny it, but that was some next level shit.” Marshall commented, absorbing all of my attention. “You went in hard.” He laughed incredulously, eyes roaming over me as though he was taking me in again in a whole other way. I felt my cheeks heat but couldn't decide whether or not it was down to the sudden attention we’d garnered or just him. 

“Hard?” Drew cut in, “Girl killed him!”

Soup shoved him as payback but it wasn’t enough to really trip the man. “I said I went easy!”

D hummed sarcastically, dragging it out long enough to earn himself another hearty shove before he then chuckled, “Face it, Soup. You got yo short ass handed to you.”

“Sorry, man.” Marshall stepped in before it could escalate and it was then he draped his arm over my shoulders, drawing me in enough to have me leaning against his side. “D ain’t wrong. Best hope no one breathes a word, otherwise you gone be fighting for your life in the next battle.”

I rolled my eyes at the sudden dramatics, and again when Soup’s expression troubled slightly, I shook my head. “I’m gonna say it again, I hate all of you.”

The words earned me a few laughs and the feel of Em’s chin coming to rest atop my head.

–

The drive back was made up of a dull buzzing tension, most of which emanated from me, seeing as I was still riding out the waves of anxiety I’d experienced throughout the battle and then after. I’d gotten a few nods of approval once I’d stepped off the stage under Em’s arm, Soup still echoing his previous sentiment of having gone easy on the new girl, and then a couple people's praises when Marshall had finally decided to head on out, claiming that we had places to be. 

So he’d said his goodbyes to his longtime friends, with both Soup and Drew managing to worm their way into my followers list on Twitter and having put their numbers in my phone. They’d claimed it was so I always knew that I had a place to come visit if I ever found myself back in Detroit and so I echoed the notion, saying that they could have tickets to any show they liked and a tour of London if they ever made the trip. Something which had seemed to please Marshall, seeing as his smile stuck all the way back up to the car. 

“I still can’t believe I did that.” I breathed once we were a little way away, The Shelter less than a dot behind us in the rearview mirror. 

Marshall blew out a small chuckle, “Why not?”

Shrugging, I found that I didn’t really have an obvious answer to his question. “I don’t know, just not my thing, you know? Like I never pictured myself doing anything like that.”

He made a short hum in retort, “I get that. Still, it was a sight to see.” He snickered after, mouth lifting into what I’d label a sarky smile, “Doubt Soup will live it down for a while.”

I winced before eventually laughing too, thinking back on the entire experience. “They’re good guys, real nice. It’s been a while since I really had fun like that.”

Marshall’s head turned to look over at me, eyes lingering on mine. “Me too.”

The smile that took over my face truly was unavoidable and so I looked towards the passenger window in hopes to shield him from it. “You do that often then?” I asked once a half a dozen shop fronts had passed us by, “Drag people down there in hopes they’ll destroy what’s left of Soup’s reputation.” I added teasingly when all he’d done was gift me a look of vague confusion. 

The skin between his brows slackened in understanding before he then shook his head, “Nah, reckon you’re the first.”

I blinked slowly at that revelation. “But you said–”

Marshall glanced over at me but was quick to hone his focus back on the road. “Know what I said. Also mentioned that it never worked out, remember?”

I did, remember that is. And immediately thought back to the earlier conversation we’d shared on the car ride over to his old home and how the people he’d let in never seemed to get why all this mattered so much. “Was that what Soup was on about then? When he claimed people thought you had a type.”

Em had to think back on that one and was quiet for a second or two before he worked his jaw. I wondered if he was reminded of the fact that once again he’d failed to mention that I wasn't in fact his girl. I didn’t ask about it.

“Nah, I guess that’s down to them havin’ met a couple of the women I’ve dated.” Marshall evaded slightly, confusing me enough to prod.

“What do you mean?”

He was silent for a long moment, but I allowed him it, figuring that whether he answered or not would be down to him. I wasn’t the type to force shit out of a person. 

“After Kim,” He started slowly, already assuming that I knew most of it, which wasn’t incorrect, if you listened to the guy’s music then you probably knew more than needed. “Lot of the girls I was seeing were fling type shit. Superficial, you know? A couple models, other famous people wantin’ to hop on the wagon. Tried to date a few women who weren’t immersed in that lifestyle after rehab and my divorce, but it didn’t work out the way I’d hoped.”

I chewed on my inner cheek, pondering over the string of women who had been welcomed into Marshall’s life. Still stuck on the thought that Soup reckoned I was different to them just from looking at me. ‘Cause see, I knew I was probably overthinking this but I wasn’t horrible looking, had to be at least a little attractive to sell albums with my face on, but I was far from being that of a model. That much I knew. In truth, I didn’t even know why I was so hung up on the thought, me and Em were just friends, that was all.

“Still, I figured that maybe Kim just fucked all that up for me. Hard to trust, to let people in. ‘Sposed it was easier just havin’ people leave before they could fuck me up any further.” Marshall explained, none the wiser to my thoughts as he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel, “Drew and Soup, they’ve been ‘round for a long while, before Dre, ‘fore I ever even thought too hard about rappin’. They saw me through it all. I guess when you came over they kind of figured that shit had to be different, I ain’t never brought no one ‘round here to them, let alone a girl they’d never met.”

I ran my tongue over my lower lip as I listened, it wasn’t a complete answer to my question— why Soup had figured Marshall had a type and me being far from it— but it was him opening up and I wasn’t about to spit in his face and get all prickly over it.

“Should I feel a sense of privilege then?” I found myself poking fun at him instead, an effort to get away from the handful of ideas that had started to plague my mind. “‘Cause I feel like I should.”

Em laughed, the gesture light, easy. It felt like the visit to Saint Andrew’s had done us both some good. “Fuckin’ right. Shelter alone is somethin’ I don’t visit all that often. D and Soup are just an added nuisance, I guess.”

“Shut up.” I chuckled in return, shaking my head at his words, knowing just how much bullshit they held after having witnessed the relationship the three of them shared. “You love ‘em.”

With a grunt, Marshall then shrugged around a quiet smirk. “Come on, today’s been all about me, I’m sick of it. Don’t tell me you ain’t got no mad stories about a couple crappy exes.”

It was an invite as well as a dip into a pool of unasked questions, a topic where Em didn’t seem too keen on overstepping. But he was right, he’d given me a lot today and that meant something.

“I don’t know what to say really.” I answered him with a subtle shrug, “Never really had an ex.”

Marshall almost came to a full stop with the way his foot stuttered over the brake. The action would have earned us a lot of loud beeps, maybe even a small collision if we hadn’t been the only ones driving down this particular side road.

“Shit, Marshall! What the fuck?” I exclaimed in one fluid breath, releasing my hold on the car door I’d gone and grabbed onto in my haste to stop my body from propelling forward into the dash. I fixed him with a wide eyed stare, “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Why’d I do that? Why’d you say that?” He countered, as if he was making any sense at all. 

“Say what!” I asked him, voice shrill and still a decibel too high after the sudden scare, but Marshall appeared mostly unphased by it, having started driving again despite everything. 

He scoffed, “That someone as pretty as you don’t have no exes.” 

I paused, noting that the way my heart stuttered was very similar to the way the car had, suddenly and then all at once. But although I was surprised by the compliment, I forced myself to relax a tad, ignoring how my pulse jumped rapidly in my throat– down to the scare or his words I wouldn’t ever know. 

“I don’t.” I told him point blank, hoping that the heat I felt in my face was just that and not me blushing. “I mean, I've had little flings and the odd date, but nothing like— I don’t know, nothing too real or long lasting.” Describing that fact was more than a little embarrassing, I wouldn’t lie, it always made me feel less than in a strange way. 

“There ain’t no way.” Marshall continued on, unknowingly driving that particular wedge in further I supposed. “There’s gotta be somebody.”

I sighed. “No. But if you want a story, the last person I was seeing was this singer, we worked together on my last album, flirted, fucked and then went on a couple dates. He stayed with me in London for a while but ended up sleeping with one of my close friends on my sofa, so, you know.”

I let go of the rest of breath I’d been holding onto then, shoulders slumping a little with it, before I suddenly remembered the next part to that particular tale. 

“Oh! And he also decided to dedicate the whole B side of his next album to it. Can you believe that? The B side, Marshall. I mean fair enough, write about an experience and what fucking not, but the B side? That’s just kicking a person whilst they’re already down, no?” I added, shaking my head in hopes to get rid of the memory, but no such luck. “He was the one who did that film too, um— I can’t for the life of me remember the name of it, but when they won that Academy award last year he mentioned me as the ‘one who got away’ and then thanked me for being the reason he was able to channel so much of his ability into the character.”

I actually had to laugh at the reminder, having been utterly fuming when the whole thing had gone down. But I guessed that enough time had passed since then that I only questioned the very decision I’d made to have let that arsehole and his tiny dick anywhere near me whenever his name was mentioned. 

“Shit’s messed up.” Em blew out, eyes alert and flitting back and forth between me and the road.

Snorting in reply to that, I couldn’t help but shoot him a wry grin. “No shit. But yeah, I don’t know. I’ve never really let anyone get too close, I ‘spose. Just easier to keep people at arm's length than give them the chance to hurt me.”

“Damn,” Marshall said, “talk about daddy issues.”

Surprised by his words, a laugh bubbled up out of me, “Like you’re one to talk.”

Em’s lips pursed in an attempt to dim his amusement to that, turning the wheel with a single motion and letting it drag back over his palm when we turned onto the next street. “Still. It’s hard to believe.”

I gave a soft chuckle in reply, letting my head loll against the headrest so that I could bat my lashes in his direction, “Why, ‘cause I’m so pretty?” I teased him, recalling his earlier statement.

Marshall’s head shake was slight but visible, as was the tiny curve his mouth made.

I reached out to poke his shoulder, smirking now. “Come on, say it again.”

He swatted my hand away before I could continue on with my fun, “Anyone ever tell you you’re also annoyin’ as fuck?”

“Yes.” I replied easily enough, “No one’s ever called me pretty though.”

“Liar.”

I laughed, the bright sound filling up the car. “Yeah, but at least I’m pretty too.” He went to open his mouth after I said that but I beat him to the jump, “Can’t take it back now you’ve already said it!”

Tutting, Marshall had to shake his head again, eyes flitting over to my wide smile, trailing the length of it. “Such a shithead.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“What are you, two?”

“Maybe.” I shot back, pointing over at him. “What’s that make you then, if I’m two and you think I’m pretty?”

Marshall caught my finger with his free hand in retaliation and clung to it as he resettled his arm back in his lap, “Fuckin’ weirdo.”

“Least I’m not a creep.”

“Asshole.” 

“Dickhead.”

“Bitch.” He quipped, eyes gleaming as they darted over to meet mine.

I shook my head in hopes to hide my growing grin, but it was then that I instantly perked up, gaze catching on the large allotment sat up ahead. “Oh, let’s go there!”

“What, to Trader Joe's?” Marshall voiced his confusion at the sudden switch in topic, though his expression was much softer than I had expected in the face of my excitement when I peered back around to look over at him.

“Yeah, can we?” I pushed, an idea now blossoming. “I wanna get some ingredients, bake something nice before Rosie gets home.”

Lifting a single brow, Marshall’s eyes flickered rapidly between my own for a split second. He was quiet before he eventually flipped his indicator to switch lanes, “You gone bake me a cake just ‘cause I called you pretty?”

A full blown grin broke out on my face at that and it was too hard to hide this one from Marshall, seeing as I’d been looking right at him. “No, ‘cause you’re gonna help me.”

[best-non-english-word-torunament]

What's the average language like?

This will be a giant of a post, because this is a subject that I really like. So much of what we think about language just isn't true when you look at the majority of them and I'm not even going into how the languages themselves are constructed, only the people speaking them, if that makes sense. It will make sense in a moment, I promise

First, let's discuss assumptions. When you think of the abstract idea of a language, what do you imagine?

How many speakers?

Where is it spoken geographically?

Do speakers of the language only speak that language or do they speak at least one other language? How many more languages?

Is the language tied to a state/country?

Is the language thriving or endangered?

In what domains is the language used? (home, school, higher education, administration and politics, in the workplace, in popular media...)

Is the language well documented and supported? Are there resources like dictionaries to look up words in, does google translate work for it, does Word/google docs work etc?

Is the language spoken or signed?

Is the language written down? Is it written down in a standardised way?

Do you see where I'm going with this? My perspective on what a language is has completely shifted after studying some linguistics, and this only covers language usage and spread, not how words and grammar work in different languages. Anyways, let's talk facts. (if no other sources are given the source is my uni lectures)

How many speakers does the average language have?

The median language has 7 600 native speakers.

7 600 people is the median number of speakers. Half the world's languages have more, half have less.

Most languages in this tournament have millions of speakers. But maybe that's relatively common? After all, half of the world's languages have more than 7 600 speakers. No.

94% of all languages have less than a million speakers.

Just so you know, big languages are far from the norm. There are 6700-6800 living languages in the world (according to ethnologue and glottolog, the two big language databases. I've taken the numbers for languages having a non-zero number of speakers and not being classed as extinct respectively. Both list more languages).

6% of 6700-6800 languages would be around 400 languages with more than a million speakers. Still a lot, but only a (loud) minority. It's enough to skew the average number of speakers per language upwards though. Counting 8 billion people and 6800 languages, that's almost 1.2 million people per language on average. The minority is Very loud.

Where are most languages spoken?

First of all, I'll present you with these graphs (data stolen from my professor's powerpoint) which I first showed in this post:

49% of all languages are spoken in Africa and Oceania, a disproportionately large amount compared to their population. On the other hand, Europe and Asia have disproportionally few languages, though Asia still has the largest amount of languages. Curious, considering Europe is often thought of as a place with many languages.

Sub-Saharan Africa is a very linguistically interesting place, but we need to talk about New Guinea. One island with 6.4 million people. Somehow over 800 languages. If you count the surrounding islands that's 7.1 million people and 1050 languages. Keep in mind that there are 6700-6800 languages in the world, so those 1050 make up more than a seventh of all languages. The average New Guinean language has less than 3000 speakers. Some are larger, but still less than 250 000 speakers. Remember, this is a seventh of all languages. It's a lot more common than the millions of speakers situation!

So yeah, many languages both in and outside New Guinea are spoken by few people in one or a few villages. Which is to say a small territory. But 7600 speakers spread over a big territory will have a hard time keeping their contact and language alive, so it's not surprising.

Moving on, lets talk about...

Bilingualism! Or multilingualism!

Is it common to speak two or more languages? Yes, it is. This is the situation in most of the world and has been the case historically. Fun fact: monolingual areas are uncommon historically and states which have become monolingual became so relatively recently.

One common thing is to learn a lingua franca in addition to your native language, a language that most people in the area know at least some of so you can use it to communicate with people speaking other languages than you.

As an example, I'm writing this in English which isn't my native language and some of you reading this won't have English as your native language either. Other examples are Swahili in large parts of eastern Africa and Tok Pisin in Papua New Guinea (the autonomous state, not the entire island).

Speakers of minority languages often have to learn the majority language in the country too. It's difficult to live somewhere where most daily life takes place in one language without speaking at least some of it. This is the case for native people in colonised countries, immigrants and smaller ethnic groups just to mention a few situations. All countries don't have majority languages, but some are larger, more influential and used for things like administration, business and higher education. It's common for schooling to transition from local languages to a larger language or lingua franca in countries with many languages.

Another approach than the lingua franca is learning the language of villages or towns surrounding you, which is very common in New Guinea and certainly other parts of the world too. It's not unusual to know multiple languages, in some places in sub-saharan Africa people speak five or six languages on a village level. Monolingualism is a weird outlier.

Speaking of monolingualism, let's move on to...

Languages and countries

This is a big talking point, mostly because it affected my view of language before I started thinking about it. First of all, I'm going to talk about the nation state and how it impacts languages within it and the way people view language (mostly because it's a source of misconceptions which fall apart as soon as you start to think about them, but if you don't the misconceptions will stay). Then I'll move on to countries with lots of languages and what happens there instead.

So, the nation state

The idea is that the people of a nation state share a common culture, history, values and other such things, the most important here being language. We can all agree that this type of nationalism has done lots of harm to various minorities and migrants all over the world, but it's still an idea that has had and still has a big impact on especially the western world. The section on nation states will focus on the West, because that's the area I know enough about to feel comfortable writing about in this regard.

How do you see this in common conceptions of language? It's in statements and thoughts like this: In France people speak French (but what about Breton? Basque? Corsican? Various Arabics? Some of the other 15 indigenous and 18 non-indigenous languages established in France? What about people speaking French outside of France?), in the US people speak English (but what about the 197 living indigenous languages? Or the 34 established non-indigenous languages? And the many extinct indigenous languages forcibly killed by the promotion of English?).

In X country people speak X, except for the people who don't, but let's ignore them and pretend everyone speaks X. Which most might actually do if it's the single national language that's used everywhere, it's common to learn a second language after all.

This is of course a simplified (and eurocentric) picture, as many countries either have multiple national languages or recognise at least some minority languages and give them legal protection and rights to access certain services in their languages (like government agency information). Bi-/multilingual signage is common and getting more common, either on a regional or a national level. Maybe because we're finally getting ready to move on from one language, one people, one state and give indigenous languages the minimum of availability they need to survive.

I wrote a long section about how nation states affect language, but I realised that veered way off topic and should be its own post. The short version is that a language might become more standardised simply by being tied to a country and more mobility among the population leading to less prominent dialects. There's also been (and still is) lots of opression and attempts to wipe out minority (often indigenous) languages in the name of national unity. Lots of atrocities have been comitted. Sometimes the same processes of language loss happen without force, just by economic pressure and misconceptions about bilingualism.

What does this have to do with the average language?

I simply want to challenge two assumptions:

That all languages are these big national languages tied to a country

That it's common that only one language is spoken within a country. If you look closer there will be smaller languages, often indigenous and often endangered. There are also countries in the West where multiple languages hold equal or similar status (just look at Switzerland and its four official languages)

Starting with the second point, let's take a look at how Europe is weird about language again

Majority languges aren't universal

I'm going to present you with a list of the 10 countries with the most living languages, not counting immigrant languages (list taken from wikipedia, which has Ethnologue as the source):

Papua New Guinea, 840 languages

Indonesia, 707 languages

Nigeria, 517 languages

India, 447 languages

China, 302 languages

Mexico, 287 languages

Cameroon, 274 languages

Australia, 226 languages

United states, 219 languages

Brazil, 217 languages

DR Congo, 212 languages

Philippines, 183 languages

Malaysia, 133 languages

Chad, 130 languages

Tanzania, 125 languages

This further challenges the idea of one country one language. Usually there's a lingua franca, but it's not always a native language and it's not always the case that most are monolingual in it (like the US or Australia, both of which have non-indigenous languages as widespread lingua francas). Europe is the outlier here. People might use multiple languages in their day to day lives, which are spoken by a varying number of people.

In some cases the indigenous or smaller local languages are extremely disadvantaged compared to one official language (think the US, Australia and China), while in other places like Nigeria, several larger languages are widely used in their respective areas alongside local languages, with English as the official language even though it's spoken by few people.

It's actually pretty common in decolonised countries to use the colonial language as an official language to avoid favoring one ethnic group and their language over others. Others simply don't have an official language, while South Africa's strategy is having 12 official languages (there are 20 living indigenous languages and 11 non-indigenous languages in total, and one of the official ones is English, so not all languages are official with this strategy either). Indonesia handled decolonisation by picking a smaller language (a dialect of Malay spoken by around 10% at the time, avoiding favouring the Javanese aka the dominating ethnic group by picking their language), modifying it, and started using it as the new national language Indonesian. It's doing very well, but at the cost of many smaller languages.

Going back to the list, it's also interesting to compare the mean speaker number (if every language in a country was spoken by the same amount of people) and the median speaker number (half have more speakers, half have less). The median is always lower than the mean, often by a lot. This means that the languages in a country don't have similar speaker numbers, so one or a few languages with lots of speakers drive the average upwards while the majority of languages are small. Just like for the entire world.

The US and Australia stand out with 12 and 10 median speakers, respectively. About 110 languages in the US have 12 or fewer native speakers. The corresponding number for Australia is 113 languages with 10 or fewer speakers. There are some stable languages with few speakers documented, but they have/had between 40 and 60 speakers, so those numbers point towards a lot of indigenous languages dying very soon unless revitalisation efforts succeed quickly. This brings us to the topic of...

Endangered languages

This is an interesting tool called glottoscope made by Glottolog which you can play around with and view data on endangered languages and description status (which is the next heading).

I'll pull out some numbers for you:

Remember those 6700 languages in Glottolog? That's living languages. How many extinct languages are listed?

936 extinct languages. That's ~12,5% of the languages we know of. (Glottolog doesn't include reconstructed languages like Proto-Indo-European, only languages where we either have enough remaining texts to conclude it was a separate language or reliable account(s) that conclude the same. We can only assume that there are thousands of undocumented languages hiding in history that we'll never know of)

How many more are on the way to become extinct?

Well, only 36% (2800 languages) aren't threatened, which means that the other 64% are either extinct or facing different levels of threat

What makes a language threatened? The short answer is people not speaking the language, especially when it's not passed down to younger generations. The long answer of why that happens comes later.

306 languages are listed as nearly extinct and 412 more as moribound. That means that only the grandparent generation and older speak it and the chain of transmission to younger generations has broken. These two categories include 9,26% of all known languages.

The rest of all languages either fall into the threatened or shifting category. The threatened category means that the language is used by all generations but is losing speakers. The shifting category refers to languages where the parental generation speaks the language but their children don't. In both of these cases it's easier to revive the language, since parents can speak to the children at home instead of having to rely on external structures (for example classes in the heritage language taught like foreign language classes in schools).

Where are languages threatened?

This map is also from glottoscope and can be found here. I recommend playing around with it, you can zoom in and hover over every dot to see which language it represents. The colours signify threat level: green for not threatened, light green for threatened, orange for shifting, red for moribound and nearly extinct, and black for extinct. I'll come back to the shapes later.

As you can see, language death is more common in certain areas, like Australia, Siberia, North America and the Amazon, but it's still spread over the entire world.

Why are languages going extinct?

There are two important dimensions to the vigorousness of a language: The first is the number of speakers who claim the language as their own and speak it with each other. No speakers means no language. If all speakers move to different places or assimilate by shifting to a dominant language in the area (sometimes for work opportunities or for their childrens' future work opportunities. Sometimes because of which language(s) schools are taught in or disinterest from the children in the language and culture. Sometimes migration of an ethnic group for various reasons leads to language shifts. There are many complex reasons to why the link of transmission can break)

The other dimension, which ties into the first one, is the number of situations in which a language is used. There are many domains a language can be used in, like at home, in school, in the workplace, in politics and administration, in higher education, for international communication, in religious activities, in popular media like movies and music etc. When a language is no longer or never used in a particular domain, it might lose the associated vocabulary. When it becomes confined to a singular domain like the home, the usage goes down. The home is usually the last place an endangered language is spoken.

Usage in a domain is a reason to speak or hear the language. It's a reason to keep it alive. People also forget or get worse at languages they don't use. That's why a common revitalisation tactic is producing movies, radio programmes, news reporting, books and other media in a dying language. It gives people both reason and opportunity to use their language skills. Which language is used in schools is also important, as it keeps basic vocabulary for sciences and explaining the world alive. Another revitalisation tactic is making up new words to talk about modern concepts, some examples are the Kaqchikel word rub'eyna'oj from this tournament or creating advanced math vocabulary in Māori.

What does endangered languages have to do with the average language?

Trying to get this post back on track, these are some key points:

64% of all documented languages are either extinct or facing some level of threat. That's the majority of all language

Even excluding the extinct languages, the majority of languages are threatened or worse

This means that the average language is facing a loss of speakers, some more disastrous than others. Being a minority language in an increasingly globalized world is dangerous

Describing a language

Are you able to look up words from your native language in a thesaurus or a dictionary? What about figuring out how a certain piece of grammar works if you're unsure? Maybe you don't need that for your native language, but what about a second language you're learning?

If your native language is English, there are lots of resources, like online and book dictionaries/thesauruses or an extensive grammar (a book about how English grammar works). There's also a plethora of websites and courses to learn English, and large collections of written text or transcribed speech. If a linguist wants to know something about the English language there's an abundance of material. If someone wants to learn English it's easy and courses are offered in most parts of the world.

For other languages, the only published thing might be a list of 20 words and their translation into English or another lingua franca.

Let's take a look at the same map as earlier, but toggled to show documentation status in colour and endangerment status with shapes:

Here, the green signifies a long grammar and the light green a grammar. Both are extensive descriptions of the grammar in a language, but they differ in length. A long grammar has to contain over 300 pages and a grammar over 150. Orange is another type of grammar, namely a grammar sketch. Those are brief overviews of the main grammatical features or features that may be of interest for linguists, typically between 20 and 50 pages. The purpose isn't to be a complete grammar, only a starting point.

The red dots can signify a lot of things, but what they have in common is that there's no extensive description of the grammar. In those cases, the best description of the language might be a list of which sounds it contains, a paper about a specific feature, a collection of texts or recordings, a dictionary, a wordlist (much shorter than dictionaries) or just a mention that it exists.

Why are grammars and descriptions even important?

The better described a language is, the easier it is to learn it and study it. For a community facing language loss, it might be helpful to have a pedagogical grammar or a dictionary to help teach the language to new generation. If the language becomes extinct people might still be able to learn and revive it from the documentation (like current efforts with Manx). It also makes sure unique words or grammatical features as well as knowledge encoded in the language isn't lost even if the language is. It's a way of preserving language, both for research and later learning.

What's an average amount of descripion then?

36,2% of all documented languages have either a grammar or a long grammar. That's pretty good actually

38,2% of all documented languages would be marked by a red dot on this map, meaning that more languages than that don't have any kind of grammar at all, maybe only as little as a short list of words

The remaining 25,6% have a grammar sketch

So as you see, the well documented languages are in minority. On the brighter side, linguists are working hard at describing languages and if they keep going at the same rate as they have since the 1950s, they'll reach the maximum level of description by 2084. Progress!

Tying into both description of languages and domains where language is used...

What about technology and language?

There are many digital tools for language. Translation services, spelling and grammar checks in word processors, unicode characters for different scripts and more. I'm going to focus on the first two:

Did you know that there are only 133 languages on google translate? 103 more are in the process of being added, but that's still a tiny percentage of all languages. As in 2% right now and 3,5% once these other languages are added going with the 6700 language estimation.

Of course, this is for the most part a limination with translation technology. You need translated texts containing millions of words to train the algorithms on and the majority of languages don't have that much written text, let alone translated into English. The low number still surprised me.

There are 106 official language packs for Windows 10 and I counted 260 writing standards you can use for spelling checks in Word. Most were separate languages, but lots were different ways to write the same language, like US or British English. That's a vanishingly small amount. But then again:

Do all languages have a written standard?

No. That much is clear. But how many do? I'll just quote Ethnologue on this:

"The exact number of unwritten languages is hard to determine. Ethnologue (25th edition) has data to indicate that of the currently listed 7,168 living languages, 4,178 have a developed writing system. We don't always know, however, if the existing writing systems are widely used. That is, while an alphabet may exist there may not be very many people who are literate and actually using the alphabet. The remaining 2,990 are likely unwritten."

(note that Ethnologue classes 334 languages without speakers as living, since their definition of living language is having a function for a contemporary language community. I think that's a bad definition and that means it differs from figures earlier in the post)

Spoken vs signed

My last point about average languages is about signed languages, because they're just as much of a language as spoken ones. One common misconception is that signed languages reflect or mimic the spoken language in the area, but they don't. Grammar works differently and some similarities in metaphor might be the only thing the signed language has in common with spoken language in the area.

Another common misconception is that there's only one sign language and that all signers understand each other. That's false, signed languages are just as different from each other as spoken languages, except for some tendencies regarding similarity between certain signs which often mimic an action (signs for eating are similar in many unrelated sign languages for example).

Glottolog lists 141 Deaf sign languages and 76 Rural sign languages, which are the two types of signed language that become entire languages. The difference is in reach.

Rural signs originate in villages with a critical amount of deaf people (around 6) that make up a fully fledged language with complete grammar to communicate. Often large parts of the village learn tha language as well. There are probably more than 76, that's just the ones the linguist community knows of.

What's called Deaf sign languages became a thing in the 1750s when a French guy named Charles-Michel de l'Épóe systematised and built onto a rural sign from Paris to create a national sign language which was then taught in deaf schools for all deaf children in France. Other countries took after the deaf school model and now there's 141 deaf sign languages, each connected to a different country. Much easier to count than spoken languages.

Many were made from scratch (probably building on some rural sign), but some countries recruited teachers from other countries that already had a natinonal sign language and learnt that instead. Of course they changed over time and with influence from children's local signs or home signs (rudimentary signs to communicate with hearing family, not complete languages), so now there's sign language families! The largest one unsurprisingly comes from LSF (Langue des Signes Française, the French one) and has 63 members, among them ASL.

What does this have to do with average languages? Well, languages don't have to be spoken, they can be signed instead. Even if they make up a small share of languages, we shouldn't forget them.

Now for some final words

Thank you for reading this far! I hope you found this interesting and have learned something new! Languages are exciting and this doesn't even go inte the nitty gritty of how different languages can be in their grammar, sounds and vocabulary. Lots of this seem self evident if you think about it, but I remember how someone pointing out facts like this truly shifted my perspective on what the language situation in the world truly looks like. The average language is a lot smaller and diffrerent from the common idea of a language I had before.

Please reblog this post if you liked it. I spent lots of time writing it because I'm passionate about this subject, but I'd love if it spread past my followers

[demonslayedher]

Things that went through my head while watching this episode: --Herein lies the biggest irony about Hantengu: His transformation into something reminiscent of a Buddhist deity; the sort of fierce and menacing kind that uses violence for justice. Zouhakuten is as convinced of his own righteousness as much as Hantengu is convinced of his own self-pity, and this is what Tanjiro is unable to stomach about him. Tanjiro cares about the strong defending the weak, so it's not just all the lives Hantengu has stolen, it's his blasphemy that makes him hate him.

--In a Kimetsu Kindergarten AU, I want to see Tanjiro and Rui and Zouhakuten all get into schoolyard arguments all the time.

--For as much as I've been appreciating the irony of Hantengu this time around, I do not consider myself well-versed enough in Buddhist iconography to do any detailed analysis of Zouhakuten's character design and name (yet), but suffice to this: The tengu references in Ki-Do-Ai-Raku's designs also borrow from the attire used in practicing Shugendo, because tengu are often depicted as and associated with Shugendo practitioners. Shugendo is a mountain ascetic religion with multiple influences, including Buddhist, and Zouhakuten looks like the sort of deity Shugendo practitioners might encounter in the mountains.

--But if anyone in this episode lives up to the Shugendo ideal, it is Haganezuka. That Taisho Secret with his extreme physical and spiritual preparation? That's what I mean, right there. That hyperfocus, though? If I were to diagnose one character in this series as neurodivergent, it is Haganezuka-san, and that maybe be part of where he gets his hyperfocus. Still, it's built into the plot that he prepared to put his life on the line for this endeavor, so I also give him credit for having also practiced spiritual mastery! For when it counts, anyway. Swords are the only time when it counts.

--Muichiro--both physically and spiritually-- was very vividly saved by Kotetsu's actions, but Haganezuka also deserves credit for having been the perfect person to exploit Gyokko's weakness--his pride as an artist. (You get a 'you tried' gold star, Kanamori-san--for now, because the sword you smithed saves the day later. Truly, everyone's actions are important!).

--Might I just say--OWWWW, Kotetsu's solar plexus might not have been punctured, but that's gotta hurt. And speaking of getting punctured, MUICHIRO FELL FLAT ON THOSE NEEDLES HE STILL HAD STUCK TO THE FROM OF HIM, OW OW OW OW OW OW OW

--The fact that Rengoku-san's tsuba was what saved Kotetsu is another why reason I really, really wanna see Senjuro and Kotetsu become penpals

--I like that even though Tanjiro and Mr. Tokito have a resemblance, Mr. Tokito sounds like a dad. But Tanjiro has so many bags around his eyes in comparison--Mr. Tokito is so much better rested! I guess he's resting in peace.

--I love this bitter side of Muichiro. It's not simply that he picked up a sharp tongue from Yuichiro, but instead, a utilitarian outlook on the world that makes him quick to judge others--or himself--as incapable. Mr. Tokito's words really were such gentle and chiding guidance. I wonder what Yuichiro's reaction to their dad was if he ever tried to have a similar teaching moment with him?

--Jumping back to the first half of this episode, making Tanjiro and Genya barely able to stand under the pressure of Zouhakuten is, well, sort of a convenient way of portraying "look he is powerful" and "now we have the hero converse with a demon." It's not quite as memorable as other times this happens in the series, but it is a signature part of KnY for this to happen.

--Another big difference between Tanjiro and Genya, at least in displaying their potential as Pillars (which Genya agonizingly recognized in the previous episode that he doesn't possess), is that while Genya spend a lot of time thinking "WTF!? W... T... F?!? WTF!!! WTFWTFWTFWTF!!!" Tanjiro is already back to rolling with the new situation. The fact that Tanjiro wasn't killed instantly by those wooden serpents was because he possessed the peace of mind to grab on and use his chances and move around to where there were pockets of safety. If Genya were in that position, he'd probably just take the hit and then flop around until his body regenerates. Likewise, Tanjiro's ability to sense unique demons, their locations, and how powerful they are is something he has continually developed, so he had a general idea how Zouhakuten came to be, but Genya needed to witness it. Again, like started in the last episode, Genya deserves a lot of credit for how hard he's worked and how much more he's able to do than just munch. Even in demon mode here, he mostly uses demon mode for the regenerative ability, and for offense he still reloads his gun and holds onto his broken blade.

--Nezuko, girl, you too. Just charging in and sacrificing limbs without a thought. Girl, you have gotten too used to this freaky regenerative speed of yours and the whole Corp sure is lucky most demons never achieve that.

--Again, I'm not a shipper, but I am tickled by the idea of reframing things with a Genya x Aizetsu angle (probably just one-sided infatuation, or even that they are exes but Aizetsu is still in love). After all, Genya knows Aizetsu's name, but didn't use the names of the other demons! Ohohoho! That sure adds more meaning to Genya witnessing Aizetsu's final moments of terror! (For the record, I do not see any of this in canon; it is simply funny.)

[cosmicpines]

There are a lot of things I'm thinking after watching the Alex Hirsch interview but a lot of it really is how much I appreciate how much I have learned about storytelling and emotion and how much of that was through GF. I'm sure most of the people who were around back in the day aren't here anymore, but there was a theory called Grunk4Gramp that arose in the hiatus after NWHS and before ATOTS. It was essentially that, since we knew Stan had stolen Ford, (god, he was still Stanley at the time)'s identity, that Grunkle Stan was the twins' grandfather. And I don't remember my exact opinion at the time but then when the "Shermie's grandkids" line and the fandom exploded again. I don't remember exactly when I realized that, yeah, that is a bit of a sloppy solution, but emotionally, yeah. It can't be Stan or Ford because that would retroactively make one or both of them really, really bad. It would be heavy and super complicated to cover in half a season. And then hearing Alex literally say that, practically word for word, just makes me really happy.

It makes me think more about just the prevailing attitude of "oh they're geniuses they must have had a plan for everything!" level of deep scrutiny. Which like, honestly? Fair. Most of us were in high school or younger. GF was a show like no other. It encouraged this kind of behavior. In retrospect, the moment that started falling apart for me was when a lot of people were so deeply insistent on the slit pupil maybe-still-possessed-Bipper thing after NWHS that I just... It's like Grunk4Gramp. What kind of storytelling would it be if Dipper wasn't making any of his own decisions? What would we even gain from the story then?

Being a creator is very difficult. Even as creators, we often forget that people who make things are still human and make mistakes. We sometimes forget that things can't be perfect and shiny and are just going to be good enough. We fight for those emotional beats and sometimes it'll make something inconsistent. Or sometimes something will fall a little flat. Or sometimes something will fall really flat. And that it happens to everyone, even creators we really love and respect. The best we can do as people is fight for the story we want to tell, not filling every plot hole and demanding an answer for every little thing. It's fun to be the second -- god, don't I know it. It is SO MUCH FUN overanalyzing things, ask literally any of my friends -- but knowing that something being complicated and intricate doesn't mean its good and vice versa.

Anyway I just really respect the GF crew and how much they put into this show, even now, 12 fucking years later. I really respect and love the fandom and all the wild shit that came out of it. My main creative project right now wouldn't exist if it wasn't for an offshoot fandom of the GF fandom, which is really a weird thing to say out of context. I just miss it.

oh also I found this on my blog while trying to find grunk4gramp things and lmao

8 years ago...