#access foreign brands | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sincerelyverena · 6 months ago

Note

Can you write for sub!Oliver? I'm so desperate seeing him squirming and whining😮‍💨

⟡⁺ RUN, BUNNY, RUN

oh hi guys its been a while ! never thought id manage to get this out but here it is, n i hope u all enjoy. ive missed each n every one of u (sorta) (joking). anyways im planning to lean in on the more multifandom aspect of my account, so youll be seeing a few different fandoms scattered around. nevertheless, give it a read! mybe itll be ur thing :] ty anon for this request, much love <3

. . . OLIVER QUICK X FEM!READER ‘beautiful, violent, vulgar.’ @ajs-222 @michael-loves-chickens @surazim @soocore @fedyascoffin

inbox is always open to requests!

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒oliver got what he wanted at a price.

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒smut ﹐sub!oliver﹐dom!reader ﹐y/n catton﹐reader is a cougar ﹐oliver just cant get enough﹐reader is implied to be a shorty ﹐elspeth is a hoe﹐cunnilingus ﹐degradation﹐orgasm denial﹐marking kink ﹐lowkey blackmail ﹐farleighs there too!

ON THE HUNT FOR BETA READERS! MSG ME <3

He reminded you of a bunny, an animal.

Oliver Quick was reticent compared to the hearty, high conversation around the table that night. He was stuck out like a sore thumb in contrast to the Cattons, a family line of the prestigious. High on the grace of themselves and each other. Blissfully unaware of anyone or anything past what they offer to their inflated egos. And who were you, to make such unprincipled claims against family? Against blood?

Mother – Elspeth, as she insists all the children call her – had always made snide, discreet digs at you. Shielded with a manipulative curl of the whoreish pinks of her lipstick. Underneath those sly comments is a white-hot grudge, directed toward her only daughter of blood and the Catton heiress everybody just seemed to have forgotten about.

‘You only think of yourself.’ She says.

‘You only believe you’re superior because you abandoned the only people who’ll ever care for you.’

But they never cared for you. Not in the slightest.

You were the only descendant of the new-age family line that didn’t reside under the roof of Saltburn, causing waves in the circles of old money when you took your trust fund (and dignity) in a single palm and vanished to New Mexico.

Nevertheless, to maintain access to the trust fund, you have been spending the entirety of every summer with your bloodline you inherently disowned. Money was the bottom line, the bottom line of every transaction you make with your parents. Which wasn’t a problem in the slightest, considering in their eyes, how much you were worth was the only thing cardinal about you.

You had stayed summers long enough to recognize the twisted, Catton-branded pattern your brother, Felix, had fallen into. In your eyes, he wasn’t fit to be claimed the bloodline heir. His blood is unsavory and debilitated. During the presidency of his birth, Elspeth had been participating in affairs with men who would’ve directly tainted both the reputation of the family name. As well as the bloodline.

The crimson redness of your dagger-shaped nails clinks along the side of the thin wineglass in your palm. Those morals of clean blood had been hammered into your head for decades, no matter how much your mother preached her modernized values.

Elspeth was still the same harlot she was all those years prior.

The exact reason why instead of disturbance, thinly veiled amusement is masked between your hues as you witnessed Elspeth’s conversation with Oliver. The wrinkle of her eye crinkled furthermore with maliciousness, masked with honeyed words. Oliver reacts in a manner especially foreign to you. The apples of his cheeks pinken as Elspeth momentarily offers a palm toward the muscle of his arm, a singular touch as Oliver’s lips clamped together. Unable to respond for a beat of a moment. The cogs behind Oliver’s eyes turn and work soundlessly, having to be coorused by Elspeth herself to respond.

Oliver was a stark difference from Felix’s past pets, brought to the household each summer for the entertainment of all. You observe him thoroughly, without shame. Nobody would question you anyway, especially the Catton children. The food chain of the bloodline stands unquestioned with Felix toppling all competition. But you were there first, and the force of that power still stands.

All that you knew was that Oliver would be at the very bottom. A stark, white rabbit amongst the lions and wolves. The sheep's clothing they wear? Deteriorated.

And you’d die for a chance to snap your jaws around his neck.

Even though you were barely a decade older compared to the other descendants of the Catton name, your tastes in sexuality had simmered. You have had your fair share of flings, basking in sensual attention like how your younger relatives are receiving nowadays.

You’ve made the stark assumption that only a few strains of men and woman could cause that familiar warmth to unfurl within the depths of her core. But you were solely mistaken, as the cobalt hues of Oliver Quick met yours. They withheld the sweetest traces of caramel that caused something to stir. Something that caused the top of your bare thighs to squeeze together absentmindedly.

Oliver’s once-pinkened cheeks redden once again. He was the first to look away.

Run, bunny, run. The words bounce around your skull aimlessly, as if the density of your head were hollow. Your only set intention was the young man across the cherry-wood table, and how your lips curl upward at the thought.

An unmistakable atmosphere of tension ridged itself between the two. Unmistakeable enough for Oliver to virtually scramble from his chair with a lowly hinged creak as soon as the black-tie dinner was to be dismissed, disappearing into the estate’s foyer without another word. In the process, silencing the remainder of the table as they escape the metaphorical weight of their chairs.

‘Someone had to go.’ Farleigh snarks, expression feigning boredom.

Elspeth offers a scoff in turn, though the weariness of her hues twinkle with stuffed amusement. ‘Don’t be silly, Farleigh.’

On the other hand, Felix’s brow wrinkles. You tune out the roar of masculine voices and a battle of ego as the two relatives bicker over the treatment of their guests. The hypocritical bounds and leaps of their voices were enough for your meal of fancy, fickle steak and fluffy, mashed potatoes to churn in your stomach.

As much as Felix preaches for his adoration of Oliver Quick, the entire household – even the thinness of the estate walls – knows that he’s only a temporary fix to his hunger for the disadvantaged. Viewing himself as a saint, veiling the sin that reverberated inside. Even Felix is willing to slip unsavory words about Oliver’s history before their friendship, especially his mother’s drug addiction.

You shortly realized you were the only one who hadn’t uttered a single word about Oliver. Yet, at least. You were the only person under the Catton's roof. You’ve maintained formality, and politeness in the scarce cases of passing the salt along the length of the table. But there was nothing polite in the way the relentless azure of his eyes bored into your own, obstructing every value and moral you’ve ever known.

They always said curiosity would eventually kill the cat. The claws of your nails threaten to dig into the hitch of your thigh, deep to the point of drawn blood.

You needed to know about him.

The soles of your crimson-sheathed heels click against the top of the blemishless floorings. The space between your shoulder blades bur without missing a beat, bound to be from the hawk-eyes of Elspeth Catton and her descendants that followed. Nevertheless, you push past the judgment and persevere forward toward the same foyer Oliver had vanished into.

The double-storied entrance room was as grand as the rest of the estate. Dark

strains of oak are the main attraction, revealing the old-money origins of Saltburn. Jars of incense sticks decorate the occasional corner, the passionate white musk filling the atmosphere, tickling the back of your throat as you inhale.

The peace-brimming silence is sliced with a stressed rummaging from the door placed offside, shielded behind the wood-trimmed stairway. You prided yourself on minding your own business, but you couldn’t help but shuffle a tad closer. Enough to catch a glimpse of a singular bead of light, trickling out of the gap the door had made.

You cursed the thrum of your heels as you ventured closer. Hand strained against the top of the engraved door, sending strained words to the universe as you threaten to inch it wider and wider open.

All that secrecy disappeared from your body at the sight of Oliver Quick. It took you a few, prolonged seconds to recognize the young man amid the shadows. The sight of his scruffy, pale knees pressed against the ground. A crown of wavy, brunette locks shielded the focused curve of his eye as he rummaged through something. You couldn’t help it, fingers curling to widen the door a little more.

Creak.

Nothing could prepare you for what you witnessed before you. Even the panicked alarm that flares in the cobalt of Oliver’s hues goes ignored as he virtually snaps his head toward you. Amid his hands, various Catton heirlooms have gone untouched. Useless to some, priceless to others, and you guessed Oliver had made his mark on that.

‘What in the world are you doing with Aunty Start’s Apollo earrings?’

The words escaped you in a rush. Who knew that that your snow-white, innocent bunny had nefarious means within the Catton family? You exaggerate aunty’s last name, a slight teetering edge of glee trickling into you at the sight of grieving recognition that filled Oliver’s eyes.

You stepped fully into the doorway.

‘I wonder what Farleigh would think about that.’

Oliver didn’t take the threat lightly, notable by the slight shake in his voice. “You wouldn’t.” He insisted. His hands scrambled, and the box propped between his fingers slipped and clattered across the oak of the storage room’s grounding.

The sole of your heel slams against the bottom of the door, widening it entirely. You entered the room with a click of the underside of your shoes, reverberating throughout the suddenly too-cold, too-hollow room you found yourself in. The only sense of illumination is the light from the foyer, trickling into the suddenly too-compact expanse.

You crouched down. Knees hitting the base of the flooring similarly to Oliver’s own, barely a foot or two away. You could hear the tameness of his breaths. The sharp, panicked gasps and swallows that only made your lips twist upward. The threat was there, looming over Oliver’s head, choking him by the throat.

‘Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. You decide, Ollie.’

‘How–’

The length of your fingers curled around the curve of his cheeks, pressed into the slight hollowness that would follow. Silencing him in turn. The splinters of illumination from the doorway behind them manage to offer an iridescent glow toward the plumpness of Oliver’s lips as you squeeze half of his alluring face.

You hadn’t expected the first, proper interactions with Oliver Quick to wind up in his manner. But you have no intention to stop. The fashion in which his eyes bore into your own, gaze hawk-like as he stared down at you. Eyelashes fluttering. Pupils dilated.

A wave of awareness rolled through you at the sight. Those same splinters of warmth unfurled in the base of your abdomen.

‘What are you doing here, Oliver?’

Your digits eased around the sides of his face to allow him to speak. The cheeks you once grappled somewhat pinkened once more, face glowing under your undivided attention.

Oliver’s breaths grew slower and slower. As if your touch drunken him.

‘Felix invited me,’ his words were borderlining a whine, scrambling to explain himself. ‘For the summer.’

The base of your eyebrows drew together darkly. The amusement reverberating in your eyes dissolved into a slight annoyance. Your fingers traveled toward the curve of his chin, taking it into your possession in a rough matter it sends Oliver’s eyes to rounden in response. He was a sick, sick liar.

He corrected himself, in seconds. ‘For revenge.’

‘Revenge?’

Despite your concentration, you hadn’t realized the lack of distance placed between you and Oliver. The proximity is intoxicating. To the point in which you felt the soft exhale of his breath fan across the form of your painted lips. His scent disturbed the twist of white musk and dust in the air, catching you off guard.

You dipped your head further upward. A single breath away from his own.

Oliver’s words scrambled from his parted lips, each syllable trembling. ‘Revenge.’ He confirmed with a singular breath.

That singular breath that was virtually snatched away from him as you captured those plump lips with your own. A warm hum of pleasure buzzes throughout your body, sensations setting your nerves on fire as your mouth brushes across his.

You retreated into yourself momentarily. Ears perked up as Oliver drew in a sharp intake of breath, eyes half-lidded and glazed over with a glimmer of euphoria. He inched forward. A small movement that confirmed the lust that sparks behind his hues.

Honeyed heat circulated throughout your body as your lips locked with his own. Threads of that same heat were found within each movement of their mouths. Your cheeks burnt with stuffled anticipation.

A soft, strangled noise reverberates toward the back of Oliver’s throat as your hands enter the proximity of his caramel-like locks. Soft to the touch, feathery. The pads of your fingers curled against his scalp. Curling. Tugging. Kisses growing with heat and passion, further and further until Oliver was a mess between your two palms.

Oliver virtually whined as you pulled away. The lipstick you had carefully applied the hour prior smeared across the edge of your oh-so-swollen lips.

The pad of your thumb ran across the form of your mouth, the crimson red dirting the length of her digit. She pulled a single finger along Oliver’s lips, smearing the remnants of the lipstick.

‘And what are you doing with my family’s heirlooms?’ You inquired, words soft with sensuality. Masking it with a casualty as you press onward. Thumb pressed immensely into the dimple of his cheek, ruddiness staining the ivory of his skin.

Oliver leaned into her touch. ‘I was just curious, that’s all.’

You knew that there was a nefarious nature in his intentions. You removed your hand entirely and raised to your feet on two heels. The sound of your soles meeting the oak floor echoes out, bouncing against the walls as you approach an ancient, traditional desk. Draped with a translucent cover. It was considered to be as old as the estate itself, yet you had no problem sitting all over it.

Oliver watched in the process. Eyes rounded a remnant of a bashful doe. A spark of recognition appeared behind those eyes as you inclined a singular fingertip toward the space before you.

‘On your knees.’

You took a bound of pleasure watching as Oliver dropped before you. Those knees strained against the ground. Trickles of arousal unfolded in your abdomen, nerves set alight and anticipation fluid within you as he came eye-to-eye with the satin fabric that shielded your cunt. And it was hard to miss the stained wetness.

‘Y’know what? I don’t think Felix would be too happy if he–’

‘You can suck off my brother later, but you’re serving me now. Or everyone will know whatever betrayal you’re planning against them.’

Oliver choked back any other remaining protests. Witnessing as your undergarments rolled down your hips, down the curve of your thighs, sliding along your calves, and dangling from the top of your ankle. Exposing your womanhood entirely to him, your legs widened a little further.

At the sight, Oliver leaned forward. Willing to comply. A foreign, almost animalistic thirst reflects in the light of his hues. Only halted by a singular palm. Your fingers propped atop the strewn locks atop his head, restraining him from reaching the wetness he yearned for.

‘I’m gonna ask you this again, and this time you’re telling me the truth, bunny.’

Your words were slow. Diligently pronounced and purposeful with each syllable.

‘What are you doing with the heirlooms?’

‘I just need–’ His words escaped in fluent gasps. Your skin prickled as Oliver’s trembling breaths fanned your womanhood. ‘I just needed some dirt on Farleigh.’

‘Oh yeah?’

The length of a singular leg of yours gradually intertwined around Oliver’s shoulders. Your hand eased up as you nudged him closer toward you. He willfully allows you to guide him, nose practically touching the top of your mound.

His words continued with a shuddered puff, eyes virtually glazed over.

‘Something that’ll disappoint your parents.’ Oliver dwells upon his reasonings further.

‘And Felix?’

He nods.

‘You dirty, dirty dog.’

Those words only fuelled Oliver further. And before you could even consider knowingly degrading him once more, the searing heat of his tongue is pressed against the slickness of your folds. He works his mouth against your cunt, movements growing sloppier and sloppier as he basks in the sexual validation he receives. The length of your fingers find themselves in his hair once more, fluffed, brunette strands coddled around your fist as you squeeze your legs around him.

The pleasure that you receive from his mouth alone is indescribable. Honeyed, warm ecstasy maneuvers throughout you. That familiar space between your thighs aches, even as Oliver’s lips latch onto them. Merely fuelling the fire that runs hot underneath your skin, alighting your nerves on fire.

“Fuck…” You can feel him grin around you.

A finger shortly accompanies the consumption of his tongue. And Oliver’s fingers are undeniably long, pale fleshed worked down to the knuckle with the force of a few pumps. He adds another. Then another. Stealing a moan or two from the depths of your throat, forcing you to clamp your lips shut. If anyone walked in. Your cheeks burn at the thought.

You bucked your hips into his fingers as Oliver worked you open, curling into you without faltering. Plunging his digits into you, again and again until you were breathless. Calves curled around him, guiding him further and further toward your sensitivities. Welcoming his mouth back onto you once more.

Oliver’s lips latched longingly onto the little pearl lining your entrance. He murmurs sweet nothings into you, fingers easing their pace until you can only hear the subtle quickness of your heaving breaths. And his whispers. Whispers of how wet you are, and how much he longs to quench that thirst. Again and again. On his knees, basked in his most vulnerable state.

Just for you. Oliver both in time, curls his fingers and squeezes your bud. Unleashing a wave of fire that takes you by the throat, walls squeezing around the length as you come undone. Shockwaves virtually gripping you. Tremors guide you back from your high as both grunts and moans of approval escape you.

Oliver glows under the attention. He peers up at you, through the intensity of his thick lashes. Doe eyes blinking occasionally, innocently, as he pops those fingers into his mouth where he once tasted you. Suckling. Tongue flittering around the pad of his digits.

‘You’ve done that before, haven’t you?’ Your words were more of a statement than an assumption. The pulsing of your newfound arousal doesn’t show in the slightest, only glimmering behind the intensity of your eyes. You weren’t done with your bunny, not yet anyway.

Oliver’s fingers escape his lips with a reverberating pop. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

You reach downward briefly. Taking the lace of your panties with a single hand, guiding the garment around the base of your heels. Abandoning them on the dust-soaked floor. Those same heels meet that same grounding.

‘I didn’t take you for a fuckboy, bunny.” You practically spit, taking pride in how his eyes wobble slightly at the force of your filthy, filthy words. A short snap fills the room as you indicate your hand towards the oak tiles.

‘On the floor.’

Oliver doesn’t say anything less, finding his body sprawled out before you. Essentially submitting himself to you in the process, something that ignites that oh-so-familiar heat in the pit of your belly. You stand over him, relinquishing in how he stares up at you, willing for you to do anything to him.

‘Pants off.’ Your words are snappy and insistent. You almost feel like that spoiled little one you used to be as a child, one who would get anything you would desire. ‘You don’t need them.’

Oliver’s fingers work to untangle his belt, loosening the dark fabric of his pants. The material rolls down his hips, his hardness is immensely visible through the thinness of his boxers. The bulge accompanying the arousal that burns throughout your entire body, abdomen unfurling with that oh-so-familiar heat.

You drop down toward him, legs clamped down on either side of Oliver’s thighs. You are squeezing them somewhat. The curve of your palm cups the fabriced nature of his manhood, causing a soft moan to escape him.

‘[Y/N]...’ The broadness of Oliver’s hands grapple the frame of your hips, the warmth of his fingers curling around you. He virtually buckles up into you, against your bareness. A motion that causes your lips to curl up into a lazy smirk.

‘Repeat my name, bunny.’ The pad of your fingers tease the rim of his boxers.

Oliver’s breath shudders. ‘I’m begging, [Y/N].’

A gradual, mocking roll of your eyes overtakes you nevertheless as you tug the thick material down. They roll and crinkle along the bottom of Oliver’s thighs, allowing for him to spring out for full reveality. For you and you alone. A low whistle fills the emptiness of the room as you observe his girth. Oliver is virtually trembling under the intensity of your gaze as you curl a fist around the length of his shaft, taking delight in how he buckled into you.

‘Be patient now.’ The words escape you with a scoff as you feign annoyance.

Oliver quietens in your demand. Alas, as you position yourself above him, you can still hear the raspiness of his breaths and the pleasure you take in the stink of desperation high in the air. He buries himself into you with a singular thrust, merely forcing a soft groan at the initial discomfort at he fills you. Stretches you out. Your hips slap against his own as you buckle up and down across his length, Oliver mimicking your movements to a tee.

You arch into him, soft noises of pleasure escaping you as he manages to claw ecstasy from you with every singular thrust. Your inner walls clutched around him, causing Oliver to drop his head back, gasping your name out as if it were a prayer. As if he were on the verge of life and death.

‘[Y/N]?’

‘Yes?’

It’s odd how the two of you presented the conversation as if you weren’t rutting your entire life and soul into him. Onto him. Oliver continues to writhe around some more, arching himself into you, again and again. The whiteness of his cheeks is notably flushed with arousal.

‘I’m about to –’

You slow down your pace until you’re merely mounting him, the lack of movement causing a groan of sexual frustration to claw from Oliver’s throat. The side of your thighs squeezes around his hips for extra exaggeration as you proceed to speak, merely unphased, even as you are reaching your release.

‘Jesus, Ollie, don’t be so fuckin’ greedy.’

You scold through hitched breath and hushed moans. His girth is warm inside you, and something about that is so utterly pleasing.

‘You aren’t to come unless you’ve pleased me enough.’

The demand causes Oliver’s head to loll back with esteemed annoyance, but he doesn’t say anything. It merely prompts the width of his hands to press into your hips, beginning to rock himself into you. It steals a moan out of your lips, but the sight of his desperation is a sight of see indeed. You arch further into him as he ruts against the exact spot that causes you to see stars.

The length of your hand folds around the back of his neck. ‘Right there, bunny, oh, you fuckin’ beast!’

Closer now. Closer now.

‘Say my name, [Y/N].’ Oliver heaves with strained breath, holding back on his orgasm has done numbers on him.

You wack him across the back of the head.

‘That’s my line, dickhead.’

Alas, the words barely escape your lips as the boiling and bubbling dam within you snaps and crashes. You dissolved into nothing but pure pleasure. Nevertheless, whatever you had said, Oliver’s name played on your lips in something that bordered screams. Tremors of ecstasy fill you as Oliver continues to pound into you, guiding you throughout your orgasm in your most vulnerable moment.

Aftershocks spark within you as you go limp, pulling yourself together with heaved breath and glazed eyes.

‘Have I pleased you enough, then?’

Oliver’s voice is hoarse, tearing you out of your orgasm-fuelled trance.

‘It’ll do, bunny.’

But before, Oliver can even consider his release. You rise from your previous position, his girth sliding out of you with ease, glistening with your slick. You tug the fabric of panties around your hips and back in place, glancing in a dust-covered mirror as you adjust your appearance. To make it seem as if you haven’t spent the past half hour having the life sucked out of you.

‘[Y/N] –’

Oliver’s protests rise in the air, falling upon deaf ears as you proceed to exit the room itself. The bottom of your heels thud against the wood-slicked tiles as you reenter the dining room, hope in hand. Your wordless wishes are fulfilled at once at the sight of Farleigh, who is window-watching, wine in hand.

‘Farleigh, thank God, I found you.’

Farleigh turns his head, bringing his glass to his lips.

‘What now?’ He’s waving away your presence entirely, it is clear.

As much as you despise this half of the family, you maintain a clear mind.

‘Oliver was rummaging through your mother’s heirlooms. I suggest you go, now. Heed my warning or not, I don’t care.’

A look of suspicion flashes across Farleigh’s face. His lips part momentarily in question before he thinks otherwise. Smart boy. Setting his wine down and immediately dashing past you. A yell or two sounds out a moment later, and your painted lips quirk upwards in pleasure.

You knew what Oliver was up to. It was clear from the first day you laid eyes upon the household’s guest. But no. It wasn’t up to Oliver to wipe out the Cattons from existence, even though he’d be doing the filthy work for you. It was admirable yes.

But it was your job. A job you strived to complete.

You slip your hand into the slight pocket in the fabric of your dress. Pulling out a small capsule. Your eyes narrow down on the glass of wine, vacant on the table.

Starting with Farleigh.

WORD COUNT: 4K MASTERLIST REQ ME!

79 notes · View notes

venusvity · 5 months ago

Text

.⋆｡ 🍓 ࿔˚⋅ THE SWEETEST GIRL IN THE WORLD ... KLARA BLIX !

Klara Blix, formerly known as JIAH, was the second Venus member to debut solo after Baebi. Her image would greatly differ from that of her groupmates, taking on a much sweeter and teen-friendly image since she was just a teen herself. Debuting in August 2018 at just seventeen, her debut single album "Why, Why, Why?" would become an instant classic and beloved "confession" anthem among young girls. Klara's brand ranking would skyrocket, and she was dubbed "Korea's Favorite Foreigner" on every variety show she appeared on.

"For Girls" was the first mini album released by Klara in August of 2019. The title track, "Good Luck, Hun." was an excellent demonstration of Klara's vocal ability and cuteness. The song would not only be popular with her typical audiences but older audiences as well, specifically older women. Her first fansign held for this album would go viral for being filled with a majority of girls and old ladies. Good Luck, Hun would top multiple charts in not only Korea but in Japan as well, resulting in a Japanese version of Good Luck, Hun and Why, Why, Why?

Deciding to take her in a more vocal-focused and mature concept that wasn't even that mature, Klara would come back with her 2nd Single, "Moon, Sun, Stars," in June of 2019. While this song did not flop by any means, it was not popular amongst fans because of the concept change. A common phrase asked by netizens during this time was, "Where did Korea's little sister go?" despite Klara still being her cute self. Due to the poor reception and poor costume choices, this era would not be remembered fondly by Klara and is often forgotten by netizens.

After a four-year hiatus from solo music, Klara would finally return in May of 2023 with the adorable single "Teddy Bear!" which would catch the hearts of a new generation of young girls. Klara was clearly marketed as an idol for a younger audience, a role model, and even a Disney Star, but only on the weekends. Teddy Bear! would garner international attention for its viral dance challenge, which was done by virtually anyone with access to social media, putting Klara back on the map musically, though she never really left. It was clear Klara had a great time promoting Teddy Bear! and even went on her first solo tour of Asia, traveling to Japan, Thailand, China, Hong Kong, Vietnam, and the Phillippines. This would mark her most successful era since "For Girls."

Her most recent comeback would be in November of 2023 with the single "Like That," which wasn't even meant to be an actual promoted release but instead a gift to fans for giving her such a lovely tour. The fans would be very vocal about wanting at least ONE stage for the single, which, after much convincing, Klara would deliver. However, one stage turned into five and would later become a full-on promotional cycle. Like That would become a staple in her discography, many constellations asking her to perform the song to this day despite her saying, "It's a concert exclusive!". This era, though short, is very beloved by fans due to how connected she was with them. Towards the end of this era, Klara would announce she would be taking a hiatus from solo releases, wanting to focus on Venus and her acting career.

.⋆｡ 🍓 ࿔˚⋅ KLARA BLIX SOLOIST QUIX FACTS !

She has fifteen music show wins to her name. More than half of them being won by Why, Why, Why? and Good Luck, Hun.

During her performances of Why, Why, Why? Her background dancers would often rotate between DeepDive members, resulting in a lot of cute interactions and starting the groups public friendship. Fans favorite "Why, Why, Why?" boys would be Kiwoo, Finn, and Woojin. This would even result in a special stage where Klara and Kiwoo would perform a duet version of Why, Why, Why?

At Klara's first fansign, there was a photobooth where attendees could take pictures with her. Klara would put some of the pictures on her wall and they can still be seen in the background of her lives to this day.

Often, Klara would perform at retirement homes and still does to this day. Many videos of her have gone viral for dancing with the grandma and grandpas there. She says visiting old people is one of her favorite things to do because they all treat her like she's their granddaughter.

When asked if she wanted to try a more "mature" concept during the press release for Teddy Bear!, Klara immediately shook her head. "Last time I did that, I stopped making music for four years. I don't want to try that again. I like being successful and cute."

During Teddy Bear! Promotions, a picture taken by staff of a long line of idols wanting to film a TikTok with Klara was posted by staff with the caption "She's such a legend ㅋㅋㅋ," which would become a meme between constellations.

#╰ * venus : discography ⧽ burn it to the ground .#kpop oc #idol oc #fictional idol community #fictional kpop community #kpop addition #bts addition #fake kpop oc #idol au #oc kpop group #kpop au #fictional kpop idol #fictional idol group

44 notes · View notes

ofmermaidstories · 8 months ago

Text

So on Good Friday I had drafted up a little post just—I dunno. It started off with me talking about my lunch (broiche toast with peanut butter, some slices of overpriced smoked cheddar and a pottle of cherry tomatoes that i’d halved and dressed with wholegrain mustard, salt and pepper and sesame oil), because i enjoyed it, and then because i had been thinking about it, i had mentioned how Australian grocery prices have climbed well above the global average.

I mentioned some of my favourite people to follow, on tiktok! Food accounts—the woman who does the Dollar Store budget videos, where she plans out meals around limited money, or accessibility. The young mum who’s videos are just her making lunch/dinner for her four little kids. The Palestinian man who used to review resturants and dishes before the war on Gaza—and who, before Tiktok took down the videos, had started posting himself making dishes from aid rations. In the end I just saved the post to my drafts because—there was no real point to the post, not really, beyond how unfair it is that food is swiftly becoming a luxury and how it shouldn’t be, for any of us, anywhere. Not us here in Australia with our 54% on average price increases, nor for American families that have to shop at Dollar Tree with their last $30 for the next two weeks.

And definitely not for the citizens of Gaza.

Israel is manufacturing a famine within Gaza’s borders. And just today, they murdered via airstrike a carload of World Central Kitchen aid workers. Seven in total, six foreign nationals and one Palestinian local. No aid organisation can operate within Gaza’s boarders without reporting their travel plans to the Israeli Invading Force. Their car was branded with the organisations logo. Israel has some of the best surveillance technology in the world—it is often the testing ground for the hot new stuff that then gets sold to the rest of our governments. Israeli knew who was in that car. And they targeted them anyway. And now because of their actions, the WCK is now “pausing (their) operations”. And who can blame them? Knowing that if you stay, you’re just putting more lives at risk—but it means how many less meals, now, less food for the Palestinians still there? All of our countries are cowards. The Australian government won’t even name Israel in its condemnation today, of the attack. The Australian government has let our only two real supermarket chains—Coles and Woolworths—create a duopoly where they can charge the public however much they want. We can’t help ourselves and we refuse to help other people—so what good are we, as a country? The boomers and the ignorant on facebook are too busy frothing at the mouth over the imaginary millionaire immigrants who come to Australia in boats and buy houses by the dozens, per family. So many of our problems—here in Australia, globally—would be solved if the majority of us realised the real enemy isn’t a people bomb-locked on their own land, or the refugees that make it here, or even each other but instead our own fucking governments, and the bastard corporations that are gripping them by the balls. I’m grateful for every meal I get to sit down to. But I would enjoy it a lot more if it were easier for all of us to eat—or if it were a CEO or politician or two on the plate itself.

62 notes · View notes

gemmahale · 7 days ago

Text

Here's the thing. I'm in a red state, in a county that went red.

I knew that when I moved out here four years ago. (Yes, it was April 2020 and no, I do not recommend moving during a global pandemic.) I accepted that that would be part of it. I made my peace with it, and I do what I can to mitigate the effects.

I'm not scared for me (minus the bodily autonomy thing since my state now has a 12 week abortion ban, and the general fuckery of facists in power) because tbh, I'm white and cis-het passing.

I'm nonbinary and bisexual. Can't tell any of that unless I tell you, and I don't make it well well known. I use she/her at work, wear skirts and dresses, and respond to Mrs/Ms Gemma or Hale (actually folks use my legal first or last name 😉); though Dr. is preferred if I get the choice.

I fly under the radar as a quirky white woman. I'm relatively "protected."

In the wake of the election results rolling out, I'm apprehensive for:

Kallen, who is white-passing Cherokee and a disabled veteran. I've been party to how he's treated differently than I am - by the same checker at the store not more than 5 minutes apart. He moved out here after I established my career, so he had little to no input of where we moved to (other than "I want to be with you.")

My coworkers who already face harassment for being POC in the community (including foreign exchange students that come to do part of their PhD here because of the proximity to the university system). People have been chased out of their positions here due to the racism they've experienced.

My coworkers who would seek to have an abortion (I'm included in this myself).

The LGBTQ+ community here (remember - I'm not out out).

The immigrant and POC communities here

And folks beyond my immediate viscinity

A lot of the community operates on a "mind your shit" basis. But I have to look people in the eye with Trump 2024 caps on and answer their questions politely. I have to drive by trucks with religious bumper stickers and greet them and give them scientifically sound information.

I wanted to believe in a world that valued competency and skill; and then I remember: I was the only one that applied to this job in the boondocks, and we've struggled to get positions filled out here. And I know part of it is not because of the low cost of living or lack of proximity to major shopping centers/social options. 🙃

I'm poking around into what local groups I can get into and donate my time to. My job puts me in direct access with food security resources, so that's probably where I'll start. Perhaps tie into the LGBTQ community because I know there's an active group out here. (I want to get more involved in the community anyway.)

I have to swallow this fear I have of being connected to causes while in my position. Yes, my employer is technically neutral ground, but that doesn't mean I have to be. I am allowed to be civically involved, as long as I make it clear when I am working in a work capacity (branded gear, name tag, etc.) and as a private citizen.

I admittedly got spooked when I received a few letters (to my private address, mind you) stating that I was a poor representative of my institution because I didn't maintain my yard like I should when I first started. (It was a whole thing and got escalated up higher than it needed to and yeah. I still have those letters in my office.)

But folks are starting to know me, and I'm starting to know them too. I need to cast this fear I have aside and be true to my values - accessibility, inclusivity, equity, and justice.

#gemma rambles #I just needed to talk through this #I'm empathetically scared #if that makes sense #I'm scared for everyone else more than myself #My dad at the last Trump Election #'We'll make it through. We always have.'#I countered with 'What about those that haven't?'#I'm pretty sure he's changed his tune on that in recent years #Had I been in a better position (aka not in grad school)#I would have gotten involved in that city moreso than I did #Sorry this turned into a confessional almost

22 notes · View notes

yangsharperavery · 1 year ago

Text

carmy telling sydney that she loves taking care of people is SO specific and exacting coming from him bc carmy hasn’t really experienced or allowed himself care... yet he recognizes that ability and characteristic so astutely in sydney.

that line is a callback to what nat says to him last season about chef’s liking to take care of people through their creativity, their gifts, their food. which is one of the reasons carmy gravitates toward food.

that’s one of the ONLY times he felt connected to and cared for within his highly dysfunctional and fractured family. THRU their likeness with and for food.

every other time he cared within his family, it was thrown in his face, he didn’t do it right or he was punished for trying.

part of him recognizing sydney’s brilliance and capability is absolutely about her skill and the food but it’s also about her ability to CARE about all of these things above and beyond the food as well.

something carmy really struggles with. like the accolades, the stars, certain details of the business. he can’t care bc care is such a tenuous and foreign concept to him on so many levels.

some people took noticeable (and justifiable) issue with all that he saddles sydney with both last season, and moreso, this season.

but without delving too much into the unjust and imbalanced distribution of labor on a black woman, which has valid and necessary critique, part of the reason carmy feels so comfortable and trusting in allowing sydney to do so many things is because he feels secure in her care and the expressions of it.

not for him specifically or directly, but for all the things that are required in their business. and even all that is required as a human as well.

he knows that her care extends beyond the food and the nourishment and the fulfillment of a meal.

and i think he does this almost unconsciously because he still wanted final say and approval on things. that’s his limited need for control and to know the working facets of a thing in order to feel certain it won’t implode.

but the CARE. that is something he sees in her. it’s something he’s lacked in a broader sense for most of his life. that care from another, directed back.

carmy desperately wants to feel and experience care. but he can’t. he keeps it at arm’s length, he self sabotages from it.

this also speaks to how we don’t ever even see HIM experience this basic care via a meal. like this guy is a chef, he’s surrounded by chefs and owns a restaurant yet he eats pb&js and poptarts?? cannot experience or allow himself care.

i think his simple acknowledgement and vocal proclamation of sydney’s care and heart is so special and impacting bc that’s what he needs. that’s what he desperately craves. but he has no real concept of it. he’s tried to display it so much throughout his life in his family but the remnants and byproducts have wounded him so severely.

so even in the way he expresses care there is an inconsistency or a haphazardness.

which is also why him telling her earlier in this season: “you’re gonna have to care about everything, more than anything” is actually just a projection. because sydney doesn’t have a lack of perception and understanding and dynamic with care. HE does!

sydney has experienced care on additional levels he hasn’t had access to. sydney has been loved. even if primarily in a familial, parental way. that is a foundation for so MUCH when it comes to the capacity of care and nurture. both giving and receiving it.

this is also why he seems so visually fixated on her sometimes. he’s trying to gauge and learn her but also figure out how he can care for and about her (while also keeping her at an arm’s length and protecting himself) because someone like her is literally BRAND new to him.

this is why he can’t handle her being upset or peeved at him.

this why he called in the favor he did for something he KNEW she would care about wearing.

WHY HE LITERALLY TRIES TO GIVE HER WHAT SHE WANTS NEARLY ALWAYS.

he witnesses her capacity for care continuously displayed and feels his own opening up toward and for her.

#sydcarmy #carmy x sydney #the bear #the bear fx #the bear meta #sydcarmy meta #the way i'm ENTRANCED with this dynamic #i need to be able to focus on other things PLSSSS

275 notes · View notes

globalrebrand · 1 year ago

Text

Fleurs par la Reine de la Nuit: Part I

Warning: None! Pure fluff.

A/N: This manlet has stolen my heart. Also posted on Ao3!

Lyney finds he must unmask a most skillful rival, yet your trade is not magic, but flowers.

Finding a good florist in Fontaine was not a matter of great difficulty. One only needed to step out into the bustling avenues of the Court of Fontaine and look several meters or so in virtually any direction to find a shop of high-quality blooms and well-styled bouquets. Nearly every district in the Court of Fontaine possessed these flower shops as given the propensity of the Fontainese for affectionate gestures, amorous gifts, and lively celebration, there was always demand for floral accompaniment. So how you managed to craft arrangements that surpassed the exceedingly high expectations of Fontaine’s florally astute populace meant your talent was nothing short of exceptional.

The arrangements Lyney had seen were truly spectacular. He seldom found himself taking notice of flower arrangements beyond a gentle acknowledgment of pretty or lovely, but upon witnessing your work, he could only think of the sheer artistry and splendor your particular brand of blossoms possessed. Arrangements that recaptured the romanticism of old masters only to now be witnessed in the musée, yet made use of exotic blooms from across Teyvat, blending the traditional with the foreign. How you interwove padisarah’s and cecilia's with rainbow roses and lumoidouce bells as if there were grown out of the earth in each other's company was incredibly difficult to replicate. He had seen would-be copycats try, but their arrangements always seemed to look so contrived or ostentatious and sometimes downright gaudy. Your particular brand of effortless opulence and organic luxury seemed singular in a city utterly brimming with blooms. Lyney decided you must have used magic in some capacity. It seemed impossible that you could ensnare an entire city with flowers alone.

He supposed your enigmatic methods of marketing were also particularly enchanting to a nation obsessed with mystery and mysticism. Lyney knew not your name. Your modus operandi was a well-executed and thoughtful affair. Your bouquets arrived at their destination via a determined black poodle pulling a gilded wagon or, for more elaborate orders, via masked individuals with a gilded tag that on one side read, Fleurs par la Reine de la Nuit , and on the other a polite Merci beaucoup. Perhaps it was not common knowledge, but Queen of the Night flowers were native to Natlan and only bloomed at night and wilted by dawn. Fittingly the only way to commission you was through a beautifully sculpted marble receptacle that sat on a prominent corner of the Quartier Narbonnais from dusk until dawn. It was utterly immovable to any passerby and firmly rooted to its spot. Paper slips for one's contact information would be accessible through a drawer in the front of the sculpture, then filled-out floral requests would be dropped into a slit on the top. He had not yet requested anything from you, but he had heard from those who used it that the next morning, a dove would arrive stating their request had been accepted and that a rather considerable payment should be remitted in a velvet coin pouch on the dove’s back.

Lynette was utterly taken with your work, she often sighed with deep longing upon coming across your works, a small pout settling on her expression, and while Lyney was undeniably charmed, Lynette was right. There was a strange pragmatism in him that prevented him from fully being enamored, though Freminet would argue he seemed sufficiently enchanted by your enterprise.

He encouraged Lynette to request an arrangement from you, but she stubbornly resisted saying that buying them for herself would cut the allure of your practice. So naturally, big brother Lyney had to take it upon himself to make his younger siblings happy.

Lyney set off the marble box and grabbed a paper slip, name,address of delivery, date of delivery, budget, and colors, simple enough. However, the questions soon took a rather intriguing turn. Two columns with separate questions, If for a friend or loved one, answer the following. The other column was for events.

Alright, Lyney thought. He would play along to your silly game.

If this person were a dish, what would they be? Ex. A chocolate souffle, understated in elegance with a rich and sweet inner composition.

What is the mood you would like for the arrangement? Ex. flirtatious, somber, wistful, effervescent, etc.

Describe how much this person means to you. I will only accept genuine confessions of affection. The sentiments need not be profound but honest.

Lyney couldn’t help but be thoroughly amused, but he answered each question in earnest. Lynette would probably be a plum galette, demure in appearance but sweet, simple, and endlessly comforting but with a surprising tartness. The mood of the bouquet should be whimsical and inspired but not overly gauche. The fragrance of the flowers should be subtle out of respect for Lynette’s sensitive nose and as for ‘how much does she mean to him?’... Lyney began to write:

"I would sacrifice myself for her in an instant. Her continued safety and happiness mean more to me than life itself."

Now, Lyney could go on, but there wasn’t much room for a more extensive response. So with all the questions answered, he sealed up his slip and placed it in the box, anticipation brimming within him.

No one knew anything about you, despite Charlotte vigorously trying to ascertain your identity in an ongoing column about your floral dealings in the Steambird. In part, he was delighted that Lynette would no doubt be pleased by the flowers, but your peculiar line of questioning had him thinking about exactly who you were and your motivations for producing floral arrangements in such a fashion. On a nearby bench, a stylish young couple eagerly filled out the form, quite obviously asking you to provide the flowers for their upcoming nuptials.

Clearly, you were a hopeless romantic, and his magician's intuition told him that you were fond of tradition but seeking to innovate for the future and sow joy to the population through your bouquets. That and that you possessed a high degree of magical ability yourself, the regimented appearance and disappearance of your magical marble letter box that never seemed to become full despite receiving hundreds of requests per day, your letter-carrying doves, and all manner of mystery in your deliveries. As a magician, your skill almost made him envious, but he could not let the feeling distract from your allure. Lyney reasoned that you must be a delicate and shy soul and he often imagined that you and Lynette might get along. He pondered what expression you wore as you read through the requests. Were you exhausted by banal queries, or tickled by the sweet secrets of love and admiration written on your forms? The more he thought about it, the more Lyney decided he must uncover your identity. Not to the public but just for his personal fulfillment.

Whether you were a great beauty or a simple flower, he decided he must see you, your secrets suddenly becoming a treasure he wished to take for himself.

#lyney x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #fontaine genshin #genshin lyney #genshin impact lyney #lyney

233 notes · View notes

simply-ivanka · 8 months ago

Text

Tony Bobulinski:

Joe Biden Was ‘the Brand’

Excerpts from the written testimony of Hunter Biden’s business partner.

These are excerpts from the written testimony of Tony Bobulinski, a former business partner of Hunter Biden, submitted to the House Oversight and Accountability Committee Tuesday. Mr. Bobulinski is scheduled to testify before the committee Wednesday. Joe, Hunter and Jim Biden have disputed some of Mr. Bobulinski’s allegations.

I want to be crystal clear: From my direct personal experience and what I have subsequently come to learn, it is clear to me that Joe Biden was “the Brand” being sold by the Biden family. His family’s foreign influence peddling operation—from China to Ukraine and elsewhere—sold out to foreign actors who were seeking to gain influence and access to Joe Biden and the United States government.

Joe Biden was more than a participant in and beneficiary of his family’s business; he was an active, aware enabler who met with business associates such as myself to further the business, despite being buffered by a complex scheme to maintain plausible deniability.

If there is no evidence of corruption—if Joe’s conduct and the conduct of his family were fully legal and proper—then why are they so dishonest about it? Not just slight misrepresentations of fact but deep untruths about the entire corrupt enterprise.

Hunter Biden gave his transcribed interview to the House Oversight Committee on February 28 and lied throughout his testimony. Here are just three key examples of his perjury:

1. In Hunter’s transcript (Page 42), he states, “I officially began to do work for CEFC when the—when I received a retainer from CEFC in early—or spring of 2017.”

Why, then, did Hunter yell at CEFC Executive Director Zang in front of his entourage as I sat right next to him in New York City on Sunday May 7th, 2017? Hunter was adamant that he was owed the rest of the $20 Million CEFC had committed to paying for the work he had claimed he had done in prior years.

2. On Page 48 of his transcript, Hunter is asked, “He’s never interacted with any of your business associates. Is that correct?” The “He’s” is a reference to Joe Biden.

Hunter responds, “Yes.”

Hunter arranged the meeting between his father and me at the Beverly Hilton in Los Angeles on May 2, 2017. The sole reason Hunter wanted me to meet his father was because I was the CEO of Sinohawk, the Bidens’ partnership with CEFC. I was a business associate. In his transcript, Hunter confirms that that meeting with Joe took place and incriminates his Uncle Jim for perjury by confirming it.

3. Hunter also lied to the Committee about important details concerning his money demands and threats to CEFC on July 30 and July 31, 2017. He leveraged his father’s presence next to him in that infamous text in order to strong-arm CEFC into paying Hunter immediately, and in the process defrauded the partners of Sinohawk Holdings LLC and Oneida Holdings LLC. The threat worked, as a few days later the Chinese wired $5 million dollars into a company of which Hunter owned 50%. It’s important to remember that the CEFC considered this money an interest-free loan to the “Biden family,” and planned to send more. I have the email from CEFC to prove it.

Jim Biden also lied extensively throughout his transcribed interview before the Oversight Committee on February 21, and ironically, Hunter Biden—in his own testimony as outlined above—confirmed that Jim Biden perjured himself:

1. Jim has been selling “plausible deniability” for so many years he can’t tell truth from the lies. On Page 100 of his transcript, he is asked: “Do you recall having a meeting with Hunter Biden, and Tony Bobulinski and Joe Biden?”

Jim’s response: “Absolutely not.”

The Committee was so shocked by his perjury they tried to ask the question again in a slightly different way:

“It’s your testimony here today that meeting never took place?”

Jim responds, “Yes sir,” “that I was present for.”

The Committee tried again: “Do you recall whether you were at the bar with Hunter Biden, Tony Bobulinski and Joe Biden?”

Jim responds: “That I know did not happen.”

Jim adds further, “But my brother was never there.”

On Page 134, delusional Jim Biden reiterates his untruthful answer again after the Committee showed him messages confirming I met with Joe Biden.

Jim Biden states, “Joe Biden never met with Tony Bobulinski.”

That is just a flat-out lie.

2. On Page 124 of his transcript, Jim Biden states, “It was Hunter Biden, myself, Gilliar. I don’t know. It was the five. Okay? And everybody was 20 percent. Okay? You know what was never executed. It was never signed.”

Jim was then presented with a fully executed copy of the Oneida Holdings operating agreement that he and I had both signed along with Hunter Biden, Mr. James Gilliar and Mr. Robert Walker. On Page 132, Jim tries to claim he was not a member of Oneida Holdings.

Jim is so dedicated to his lies that he describes the Oneida document, a large legal document signed by the Biden business partners, as something that I might have come up with after drinking a “quart of gin” (Page 124). It’s absurd.

3. Jim Biden further lies by claiming “Bobulinski was trying to usurp and replace Hunter Biden.” (Page 123)

Hunter Biden, Robert Walker, James Gilliar and Jim Biden asked me to step in as CEO of the business. I did not ask them. I tried to walk away from Sinohawk multiple times only to be convinced to stay on, including on one occasion by Jim Biden himself. The company was controlled by a Board of which the 4 of them could out-vote me on anything. They had control of the company. . . .

Why is Joe Biden blatantly lying to the American people? . . . If he were doing nothing wrong, why go through this insane exercise of obstructing and denying obvious facts? . . .

The reason is because the Biden family’s profiting of tens of millions of dollars from our strategic opponents and corrupt individuals and entities around the world—without delivering any goods or services and while putting in minimal effort and work—causes Americans to rightly question any policies from this administration that apparently benefit those same strategic opponents and corrupt individuals and entities. Just read the latest motion by the Department of Justice related to Hunter Biden’s criminal indictments in California; the DOJ states that he made large sums of money for very little work.

49 notes · View notes

wishing-stones · 1 year ago

Note

Baggs Z: A taste of one's own medicine >:3c

Z. [Make up your own] A taste of one's own medicine >:3c

This was a challenge to figure out how to pull off but, well...

There's always a bigger fish, buddy.

He did not like the way that Nightmare was looking at him. That half-lidded, almost coy appraisal made his hackles raise, although he did his level best to ignore it and continue his work.

"I've been pondering how your magic works," Nightmare drew Baggs' attention back to himself the instant it forcibly left.

"I've no doubt you have," Baggs returned airily, focusing on his work rather than the uneasy feeling that his benefactor's attention presently inflicted.

"How does a human trait bond with monster magic in order to create an entirely new type? If we consider how perseverance affects the soul normally, it creates the ability to restrict movement to only a few avenues. With the holding ability of patience, to force damage unless one is completely still, it makes a certain amount of poetic sense. Restricted and forced to remain still or suffer the consequences."

He feigned disinterest, but Baggs was actively listening. He'd thought about this a number of times and come to the same conclusion Nightmare was approaching; the latent patience in his system attached to the foreign perseverence and crafted a new magic that utilized traits from both. The stillness of patience and the rigidity of perseverance literally swirled together to create his unique brand of magic. Since both traits affected the soul and its movement, it was little wonder it leeched into affecting the mind as well.

"Not to mention the almost Determination-level of focus it grants-- it's more than evident in the way that yours is more pink than purple. It dances a fine edge that I'm sure very few can escape."

"If you are getting at something, sir, it would behoove you to get to it rather than waste my time." There were rare occasions Baggs felt comfortable in pushing his boundaries with Nightmare. This was one of them. Nightmare was actively distracting the doctor from his work, and Baggs was already irritated and verging on overtired again. When Nightmare had initially shown up, he'd assumed it was to herd him to bed... but no. The Guardian of Negativity had simply stayed and watched. Baggs thought he might, perhaps, be watching his work for a while, until he saw how frequently Nightmare was watching him specifically.

"Oh my, we are getting cranky, aren't we?" Nightmare cooed in a voice thick with amusement, "I've a point, doctor, but it bears explanation."

Baggs leveled his best unimpressed, expectant stare at Nightmare, who only smiled serenely at his underling.

"And that explanation is...?" Baggs prompted, sitting down at his desk to transcribe his notes for the evening.

(He subtly checked the access records to make sure that no one had come snooping while he wasn't here and is relieved to see he has nothing to worry about today.)

"I believe I've broken down the specific way your magic resonates." Nightmare took up a seat near his desk, "As everyone's magic passes on their own unique wavelength, yours, likely by nature of perseverance, acclimates quickly to an individual's unique magical wavelength. It's how you can seize control-- you work instantly on the same individual wavelength... or more accurately, your magic attunes everyone else to yours. I have seen how you can command an entire room at once. Each soul in that room attunes to you."

Baggs paused and steepled his fingers.

"Those more in control of their magic and more attuned to their souls have more capability to resist that call." He hummed, "And the presence of Determination makes it easier to maintain one's own unique magical resonance. Interesting hypothesis."

"Indeed." Nightmare nodded sagely, smile still eerily composed, "And any good hypothesis should be tested to ensure its validity, wouldn't you agree?"

Baggs eyed him out of the corner of his socket.

"What are you getting at?" He said slowly, not entirely certain he liked the tone Nightmare took up.

"I've a very fine control over my magic, doctor Baggs." Nightmare stood, and Baggs shifted back minutely, "So much so that I can control the resonance of my soul consciously. It makes cloaking my presence to those who know it very easy. It is how my brother oft times does not know something it transpiring in another world until it is too late."

He was putting on theatrics. Baggs resisted the urge to roll his eyelights and elected not to comment. Best to let Nightmare get it out of his system.

"I've a theory that my control is even fine enough to force other souls onto the same resonance."

"Like my magic does, in theory."

"Yes, precisely."

Baggs screws up his mouth.

"You want to test this theory."

"I do."

There is a very heavy silence that follows, and Baggs finally breaks it after a moment with a callous snort and toss of his head.

"Go bother Killer with it."

"Oh, but doctor, where is the fun in that?"

Baggs did not like where this was going. He slowly pushed himself back from his desk to face Nightmare, scowling.

"No."

"What a pity, I'd assumed an academic like yourself would have welcomed the opportunity for hands-on research regarding your very unique ability, and to understand how it works better." Nightmare idly inspected his phalanges, "...Aside from the fact that I wasn't really asking."

Baggs was very suddenly no longer sitting in his chair-- he was struggling against tentacles, kicking his legs fruitlessly and squirming to no avail.

"Unhand me!" He barked, and Nightmare only chuckled.

"What ever is the matter, doctor? You trust me, do you not?"

He was beginning to rethink that stance.

"Besides, I would never do anything to hurt you. That much you can be completely assured of."

Baggs quick kicking his feet and frowned.

"Beyond all of that, it is high time that you cease your work for the evening."

He glanced sideways at his computer screen, squinting faintly at it. He'd saved... and if the computer just went to sleep it would require a password to get back into.

Something... something strange squirmed against his soul, and Baggs recoiled with a bark of indignation. He tried fruitlessly to get free again, but the more he struggled, the more it felt like something was trying to work its way in.

A heavy feeling settled on his shoulders, and he struggled against it, shaking his head fitfully.

It did nothing. The feeling of something working its way past his defenses, to the very innermost parts of his mind and soul was pervasive... But at the same time, strangely... not unwelcome?

Was this truly what it was like?

Struggling grew more and more difficult as his limbs began to respond more slowly. His head felt heavy, difficult to keep aloft, and when it tipped to the side, it was righted with a tentacle.

While Nightmare's eyelight didn't swirl and pulse like his own, it did seem very difficult to look away from. It held an unearthly, beguiling light that seemed to leak into the farthest reaches of his mind and quiet the relentless buzzing of his thoughts.

...It felt kind of nice to not think for a bit.

Nightmare chuckled softly. Baggs tried to return some witticism about his self-satisfaction, but nothing came but a weak, feeble moan that tailed higher at the end in almost a questioning manner.

"Hm. That hypothesis seems rather firmly proven correct." Nightmare observed airily, "And an interesting new utilization of my own magic. Really, I ought to thank you. Had we not met, I doubt that I would have thought to try this."

The words sunk heavily into Baggs' mind, followed by the feeling of both amusement and genuine gratitude. Nightmare might be having fun toying around with him, but he was, at the very least, truly thankful for the insight.

Still, it was getting harder and harder to keep his sockets open. This was not an unfamiliar feeling-- He was quite used to the sensation of Nightmare forcing his unruly magic into submission so that he could sleep. It was slightly different now, though. His magic did not try to retaliate. It complied easily-- almost as easily as Nightmare himself carried Baggs away from his lab and to his quarters.

He tried again to vocalize the faintest flicker of a thought, but it was snuffed out, and the words came out as a quiet, nonsensical mumble. The flash of unease that accompanied the realization that his acute mind was succumbing to numbness lasted only a moment before he was hushed-- hushed in the same way he so often hushed his own patients-- and then all was quiet.

"There, now. Nothing to fret yourself over." Nightmare's voice was a low, sweet lull, and Baggs finally lost the fight with his sockets, letting them fall closed with little resistance. The gentle sway of Nightmare's gait was pacifying as well, and he teetered on the edge of consciousness, only rousing slightly when he felt the softness of his mattress beneath him. He tried to stir out of it, but felt a tentacle smooth almost soothingly over the top of his skull.

"Sleep now, doctor. We will discuss this come the morrow."

#k answers #k headcanons #fic nonsense #minific asks #feat. baggs #feat. nightmare #shoe's on the other foot now buddy #featuring a shit ton of headcanons and speculation and pseudo magic theory

90 notes · View notes

melodrama-ticcc · 1 year ago

Text

— “ 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ” ; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞

𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘛𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥.

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫. 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧. 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧.

ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ: ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵐᵃᵗᵘʳᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ. ⁱ.ᵉ. ᵈᵒᵐᵉˢᵗⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ, ᵍʳᵃᵖʰⁱᶜ ᵛⁱᵒˡᵉⁿᶜᵉ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ⁱˡˡⁿᵉˢˢ, ᵐᵉⁿᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵘʳᵈᵉʳ, ᵐⁱˡᵈ ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ʳᵉˡⁱᵍⁱᵒⁿ, ˢᵉˣᵘᵃˡ ᵗʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢⁱᵗᵘᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ.

—

When Rebecca was only eight years old her mother sat her down, struck her across the face and handed her a brand new doll; her only instruction being to ‘sit down, shut up and stay out of my sight.’ With the stinging red imprint of a hand across her cheek and tears welled in her eyes she watched as her mother flounced down the hall to rejoin her estranged lover. Only for the discordant slam of the bedroom door to echo through the home and into the child’s ears, leaving her sat with the doll still in its box planted in her lap.

It’s hair is blonde like her own, eyes a pretty blue too. The paint virgin and pristine; it’s done up in vibrant and glamorous makeup. Adorned in a cute little gingham dress and a matching bow. It’s curious how her eyes light up in awe and her lips form an innocent smile. Heart-wrenching surely, how she hugs tight the box in her arms and clutches the package against her small frame as though it were the only thing that would ever evoke such a pure, sweet smile.

The warm tears that once gathered at the cusp of her lashes drip down her cheeks when she squints shut her eyes. She cuddles the box as though it were a plush, nuzzling her head against its top as she sought the comfort such a foreign thing brought to her.

When her sadness had been quelled and the happiness the doll instilled in her took over, she pulled away from the box to examine the toy in its entirety. A delighted giggle befalls her smile as she excitedly begins her attempts to open the thing. Her small, fragile fingers prying open the plastic wrapped cardboard to gain access to her precious new doll. The toughness of the packaging tears at her delicate skin and she gasps, pulling away her hand as she inspects it closely. When she determines there is nothing to fret over she contently hops to her feet, eagerly making her way to the kitchen to fetch a blade.

However like all children must learn, it isn’t safe to play with sharp objects.

In her guileless little brain the idea seemed harmless enough. Use something sharp to cut open that which she couldn’t. Just like she’d seen daddy do with the pocket knife all those times splitting hay bales out in the fields. She mimics that act. Sliding the sharp edge of the knife beneath the plastic tape that lines the box, the girl steadies her grip atop the thing and pulls upwards, cutting through the damned tape but also into the tip of her finger. With a shrill cry she drops both the knife and the doll, staring wide-eyed at the blood that oozes from the sliced fingertip.

She cries because it hurts, the pain much more than a little one that age can bare. Frightened and scared, she scurries down the hall to the closed door of her mother’s quarters. Tears spill down her stained cheeks and her face turns bright red, mouth whirring as she desperately attempts to keep it shut. That is, to avoid a corporeal scolding from her mother. Muffled sobs and whines of affliction dance off the walls and back into her ears. She wails for her mother, her father, for help, for anyone, as the blood drips to the wood floors to paint it crimson.

It seems that when the air becomes deadly still and her helpless hyperventilations cease, for but a moment, she can distinguish the lewd moans that come from beyond that door. The vulgarity of it all is innocuous in a little girl’s mind, and despite her mother’s wishes the severity of the matter seemed more prevalent than what she could not understand. So, she reaches for the doorknob. Contemplating the possibility of a second beating, her hurt gets the best of her and she decidedly rotates the knob. It seems to turn in slow motion, her stifled whimpers and convulsing breaths quieting in the suspenseful act. Suddenly fear far outweighs the perceived pain, and just as she becomes regretful of her decision the door swings open to reveal what she can only assume is her mother beneath a man in her father’s place.

She doesn’t move, only stands there sniveling. Holding out the gushing finger as she cries out for her mother. Through the smutty sounds of voyeuristic phrases and libidinous mewls she struggles to grasp the attention of her lecherous mother. Shaking, she toils to stop the bleeding that continues to pour from her wounded fingertip. But the longer she stands there, weeping, the more the pain dissipates and the reality of what surrounds her comes crashing down. Her mother doesn’t so much as glance at her; she doesn’t care. She’d much rather get all fucked out than pay attention to her poor little girl. That epiphany hurts most of all, so she cries harder, legs going limp as she collapses to the floor in a panic-stricken heap. She screams something ugly, snot spurting out her tiny nose and hot-tears searing her burning red cheeks. Her long lashes coagulate together as she winces her eyes shut, head bobbing up in the air as she transmutes to incoherence.

The vigorous resound of the wooden bed frame creaking too and fro gradually becomes much more potent, it being the only thing that fills her senses and clouds her mind. She might be young but she knows the man shouldn’t be there, that he was a man in her father’s place. That only makes matters worse, and the surrealism of it all makes it something she won’t soon forget. When she opens her eyes and the wet dissolves from her vision she’s left to stare at the face of the man who elicits such lustrous sounds from her mother. Only it isn’t that same man she’d come to know as Matthias, and the face that turns its head to look back at her is a face much more recently familiar than she would have liked.

There was no mistaking those cataclysmic eyes or that long slick hair. They look to her with with a direful motive, those dark strands of inky locks falling forward and into his face as he prods into her mother with a divine purpose. With each thrust of his hips he grunts, her mother sings and the bed croaks. Her morose screams become silent in the wake of such unchaste moments. Eyes wide in fear at who looks back at her. That defined scar that draws itself over his left eye and down his cheek is a defining feature, and when he looks back to her that shit-eating smirk sends her over the brink of sanity. Johnny’s strong, scar-littered arms prop himself up, his muscular back arching over that who he makes love to. Scratches and bruises cover his back, scars of past histories evident in the dim light. His focus goes back to the woman beneath him, only it isn’t her mother as it had once been.

Those blonde ringlets are irrefutable, messily folded about the pillowcase as her head throws back in blatant pleasure. Her back is arched into the cotton sheets and face contorted in a congenial display of affections. As the woman gasps, her brows screw up and those sapphire eyes flash open to reveal the cutthroat face of what she can only perceive as herself.

Her eyes open and her body shoots up from where it slumbers, eyes wide and face washed pale as though she’d just seen a ghost. Rebecca clutches at her chest, hair astray as she breathes heavily. The faint sound of mockingbirds chirping a sweet song can be heard from just outside the window, and as the sun rises it’s rays peak through the small opening in the curtains. When the realization becomes her and it is known to be nothing more than a dream, she settles. Her body relaxes from its tense state and eases back into the plush of the pillows.

She hadn’t thought about that memory in some time, what kind of mother does such a trashy thing? She could never wrap her head around it, not even now. She’d never understand why some tramp was more important than the relationship with her husband or caring for her child. That was the day Becca realized her mother didn’t actually care about her, that she was nothing but a nuisance to the woman. Of course, she’d chose to block that from her memory, her stubbornness making the denial much more difficult to get through. After years of convincing herself it was the opposite, she made herself delusional with whatever she wanted to believe; that her mother was a saint that tended to her every need. Deep down though, she knew that woman was a no good slut.

The scene disquiets her. The cursed image of Johnny hovering over her nude body in such an explicit act both terrifies and invigorates her. Her intellect tells her she should be disgusted or repulsed, petrified by the thought of him ravaging her in such an crass way. But the arousal that burgeons in the pit of her stomach tells her otherwise, as does the racing beat of her heart. She is both alarmed and enticed, so she finds it in her best interest to bury the memory deep within her.

Something about him is so undeniably haunting. Attractive and well-proportioned, his imposing appearance is one intertwined with both strength and mystery. With an uncanny eeriness about him, his enigmatic nature is imbedded within those gloaming eyes. Thick and dark lashes swathe those hooded tenebrous orbs. His veneer is effortlessly beautiful, a strong jaw enough to make any woman feel weak in the knees. His staunch determination is evident in those fervid brows and the way they taper downward to demonstrate his intense personality. His rugged, brawny body is lean and agile, and those scars only further antagonize his austere persona.

Screw Johnny Sawyer and his stupid good looks.

In a flustered plight she tosses the duvet and white linens off of herself, swinging out of bed as she marches toward the window and flings open the drapes. The early morning sunshine flares in through the far off skyline, a sheen of golden luminosity gleaming into her sparkly ultramarine lenses. The bright blue glimmers in the light of that rising sun, a stark contrast to her glum state.

And that was just it, she was in fact glum. Gloomy and distressed, confused, and most especially flustered.

It had been a few days since Rebecca had last seen any trace of Johnny, not since he’d dropped her off on the front steps of her porch and proclaimed how wild she drove him. The juncture replays itself in her head like a film reel, over and over again, without clemency. Sending a disgustingly violent shiver through her body. She hasn’t been able to rid herself of the thought of his tantalizing words, full of such throbbing tension and tease. Leaving her wanting more from him. His words stuck like glue and so prevalently made themselves known at the forefront of her mind, tickling at her thoughts more frequently than she’d liked. They were filled with such promise, genuine affection that made her feel as though she were the only girl in the world, the only one worthy of his keen eye. But while her instincts tell her no, that it was exactly what he wanted and she was falling for his trap, she knew all too well the truth riddled in his eyes. She could read him like an open book the same way he did her. He couldn’t manipulate a manipulator. Even Johnny knew that. So, tormented by the prospect of his flagrant demonstration of admiration, the few days staggeringly becomes a week, and a week two, with not so much as a glance of him.

Had she done something wrong, scared him off in some way?

No, that was stupid. She couldn’t give two shits about that. She still hated him.

But then, why hadn’t he returned to pester her? Like he always did before. Or inquire about the aftermath of their night out?

Since that supposed date there was nothing but static, not even the slightest inclination of Johnny’s seething presence. It was through his absence that Rebecca discovered the unfathomable; a pressing and unrelenting urgency to see him once more. Unsurprisingly it had vexed her that he’d been such a gentleman on their night out, only to carelessly remove himself from her to conclude. She’d expected this, in fact, that wasn’t the part that bothered her the most. It only strengthened her simmering animosity.

For the time they were apart the Johnny dilemma was the only thing that bedeviled her thoughts. At first she thought this was another one of his antics, a method of getting her all bent out of shape and riled up. She thought he was aiming to get her to act out as per his usual, even thought it might of been a way of getting her to fall for him. Then her thoughts became more visceral. She was scared that she’d frightened him off or off-put him in some way. That lingering paranoia often became too much for her, and she would overthink and complicate every possible reason and outcome. Was he trying to get her to come back to him herself? Trying to get her to lash out? Was he finished with her then? Leaving her alone? Was he angry or upset with her? Did she say something she shouldn’t have? Maybe he was just no longer interested in her, no, that meant she’d done something to deter him. But she didn’t care about that, that was moronic, she didn’t like him she loathed him. But ultimately; it only angered her worse. And she’d continue to bounce between a recalcitrant rage and a profound panic.

When she couldn’t control her thoughts she couldn’t control her actions, and by that extent the things that surrounded her. Maybe this was his plan all along, to tear down her peace of mind and solitude. The sporadic nature of her pathos made her a catastrophic walking disaster. And with the fading feeling of her own grip she went mad, freaking out about the littlest of things and still unwavering of her solicitude for Johnny and the notions his actions implicated. It was those thoughts that drove her into a state of desperation and lunacy, and he had been the cause of those thoughts. So with the fervent emotions that coarse through her there is an abundance of wrath that come with it.

It radiates off of her in laden waves, the unbearable sensation felt from a great distance. Hot and heavy feelings of feral anger and turbulent resentment. The delinquency of her unbridled rage surpasses that of anything she’s ever felt before. She even thinks she might despise him more than she does her mother and her tool of a paramour. She is foreign to the complicated emotions he evokes from her. Perpetually bouncing from that long-standing narrative of vehement loathing to the newly acquired perfervid adulation. Rebecca is no longer in charge of her own affairs and it only worsens her feelings of antipathy. The fleeting phenomenon of the jurisdiction over her own inclinations is enough to drive her past the point of no return. It is an itch that needs scratching, an infestation of her peace and solitude. There it is, that lost sense of control. And the unrelenting tremors that come with it.

Why must she feel such a way? Where she can no longer differentiate between the need to kill him and the desire to fall victim to his pretty charms. Like magnets the instincts push and pull with their negative and positive charges. Never quite meeting in the middle, never going where she wants them to go. That missing sense of stable ground would eat at her incessantly, and at the same time his calming demeanor quells the acute aggravation in her head.

But more than anything she is acrimonious of this newfound impasse. Inimical over the verity that he had forsaken her with and the catalyzed influx of emotions she felt. Her vitriol is festering and rearing it’s all time high. Episodes of mania become much more frequent even without his presence, and all so slowly, painstakingly laggardly, she can feel herself loosing her way. She’s sure it’s all his fault. Convinced he is the reason the intermittent flukes of both flagrant belligerence and vacillating reverence are driving her battier. Determined that he was causation for all her demented emotions and loss of self maintenance.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She cannot bare to face the convoluted reality of her inner turmoil or the blossoming feelings that had been birthed within her. Acknowledging them meant acknowledging her lost footing and forfeiting her control, and she couldn’t fathom the possibility. To snuff the ephemeral stewardship she busies herself with the housework, remaining cooped up in the farmhouse in hopes of brainwashing herself of Johnny and his charismatic persona while her father worked diligently out in the fields prepping to take in cattle.

When her mind wasn’t preoccupied with the daily chores she bestowed upon herself, she was huddled into a pulsating ball. Slender fingers intertwined into her silky hair as she grasped and pulled and writhed. Her eyes would strain wide and her arms would ensnare her throbbing head. Silent tears would drip down her face as she babbled disjointed nothings and ballads of nonsense in a desperate attempt to quiet her looming fear. It wavered and teased above her head, and nothing, not even her perfect little life would shake the lingering feeling of overwhelming emotion. She’d sit there for hours, shaking profusely until the feeling became numb enough for her to carry on with her activities. It would happen once a day, then twice, and then more than she could bare to count. A gradual progression of lost conviction. The more frequently they prevailed, the more control she immolated. Until she wavered on the brink of there being nothing left to give.

Her world was tumbling down around her, like a castle crumbling down upon itself. The perfect little picture she worked so diligently to create was faltering upon a faulty foundation, breaking apart all at once. She felt as though she was falling down a never-ending hole in which she constantly feared the landing, only it never came, so the feeling of distress became worse and worse with each passing moment.

Perhaps Rebecca had never been bewitched by such unwarranted emotions. The subject foreign and the feeling most uncomfortable. Sure, her unfamiliarity with the phenomena certainly made her feel a little queasy. But the presumption it carried was the real perpetrator.

Emotions, what a pernicious affair.

She’d never expected the thing that arrested her control to be something so petty and frivolous. Ah, but then again, hadn’t her anger ceased it several times before?

No. That was Johnny’s doing. Just like this was.

Somewhere in there the hunger for malignancy and sanguinity grew ten fold, a barbaric surrogate to what she was losing. Only her urge for bloodshed was no longer solely pinned on Johnny, in fact she craved more to kill those who were strangers to her. Those who were unaware of her lack of civility, those she hadn’t cared to garner the approval of, those she didn’t need to impress. Strangers who were disposable to her, whom she didn’t care about. Strangers who were men that inflicted damage like Johnny and Matthias did. Men who preyed on pretty girls and thought so highly of themselves. Men who only wanted to have sex and dump girls on the street the very next day. There she’d find the control she sought, over their mutilated and lifeless body as she stood over them drenched in their blood. That, and the ecstasy the brutal act would elicit from her core. Rebecca was so keen on the idea; she was sure it would grant that thing she craved so much.

Ever since the night she’d seen Sisters at the drive in, something had awakened in her. Call it a new found inspiration, but the vividly dark and murderous beauty in witnessing another woman kill men for her own gratification and vengeance had sparked something within. It was no longer just a thought, it was something Becca saw herself doing. It blurred the lines between what was reality and fiction.

She had dreams of it, wild fantasies where she’d hack up the bodies of unsuspecting young men. Liquidating them while they were still young. Let them think they were getting what they wanted and just as they’d take their pants off she’d take the axe to their torso. Bloodthirsty and homicidal imagery that made her legs feel weak and her insides tingly. But of course it was only an idea.

However Rebecca couldn’t do away with that idea. The desirable idea of killing men who didn’t matter to her, one’s the world would be much better off without. She could confiscate the control they had over her and wield it as her own, and when she killed one she would go on and find another. Fulfilling her innermost covets and regaining the very thing she felt she’d lost. She’d lost it one way and would supplement it with another.

He was there sometimes too, watching from the outskirts and offering his nonverbal approval in the form of the slight nod of his head. His brawny arms crossed over his chest.

It was just a silly dream.

Through and through, she was certain he was at fault for it all. Her deprecation simmered in the days spent tormented by her own addlepated mind. Simultaneously juggling the creeping emergence of her newfound infatuation. It would continue to pester her that he was nowhere to be seen, and that he had so casually and selfishly treated her so perfectly and then left her all alone. It was respectful in some ways, he must’ve considered the fact that she’d never really been akin to him before. But that never stopped him before, and it seemed to be in line with this game of his. She was convinced this was his way of getting her to crawl to him in a pathetic state of desperation, begging for him at his feet. She wouldn’t cave and go see him, but she was going to be sure to chew his ass out when he came up again. But in his truancy, those passions only swelled in her, stirring up something beyond anyone’s grasp.

The day Rebecca was sure she’d go out and sever someone’s head, the worst day of those two weeks, she had chosen to pamper herself through miscellaneous matters in an attempt to keep herself distracted from her ails. Between bouts of insufferable rage and trifling mental afflictions, she would carefully apply her expensive creams, do up her hair in the fancy curlers she loved so much and prepare to lacquer her nails in a fine red color. It was a tumultuous affair that juxtaposed between the picturesque illustration she wished to present and the tenuous mental state within. Between each episode she’d carefully neat her messed hair and dab at her wetted eyes. It hadn’t mattered though; her appearance perfectly emulated the despaired state within her. A distressing image of sickness and the unwell.

She would tread between an entirely maddened mess to a woman struggling to keep herself together, but desperately trying to. Her fiery eyes blown out wide and frantic, sullen with the purplish blue her exhaustion caused beneath them. Her cheeks are sunken, devoid of the rose tincture they typically donned. And despite her best efforts to maintain that faultless appearance it was futile, for that day, nothing could begin to cease the teeter totter that took refuge in that turbulent brain of hers. It was eventually settled upon; she needed to kill someone just alike him, less he wise up and come to. But that, that would be the only thing that kept her from becoming a shell of a girl with no purpose to life.

She instead finds herself surfing through the seven television channels their meddled reception provided them, in order to distance herself from the cage she was entrapped in. She settles on a familiar channel that played old black and white movies, reruns of those shown in cinemas years ago. The same channel she and her father would entertain from time to time. Doing her best to rest and calm her tempestuous thoughts she eases into the cushions on the sofa in the homestead’s living space, shaking up the rattling bottle of scarlet nail lacquer before twisting open it’s top.

A suspenseful, quick paced orchestra plays over a black screen, that which follows a series of opening credits transitioned through the retro slideshow that blended the stark white lettering against the streaks of gray and the blackness of the foreground. Ah, she’s tuned in just at the very start.

ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S

PSYCHO

Surprise is evident in her expression, the revelation dawning on her that this had been the exact film Johnny had recommended to her two weeks prior, the same one advertised on that movie poster. Confounded, she pauses, contemplating whether or not to switch the channel to the local news or continue on with the show. She resented the fact that he’d been the one that recommended it to her, but at the same time it piqued her interest for that very same reason.

Inevitably she decides to press on with the film, eyes transitioning back and fourth from the on screen story to her half painted toe nails that were placed gently against a throw pillow that sat atop the cushions. Her body is hunched over on the sofa, her knees tucked up against her chest as she hangs over them, hovering over to paint those neatly trimmed nails. She wiggles her toes and stretches them out, admiring her work with a tickled countenance. Every so often her icy gaze flickers up to the lit screen, half-heartedly following along with the intriguing story the film tells; a young woman on the run to set her man free of his debts.

There’s a well put together young man. His dark curls swept in a fine hairdo and his black eyes bleak and void of emotion. This aside, he is the classic depiction of a finely raised boy; well mannered and eloquently spoken. He looks nice, the type of man young women garnered trivial crushes on and gave valentines to. He was well dressed, clean and attractive, much like someone full of class. He offers a cunning, benevolent charm and a sort of reserved politeness. Not overtly uncomfortable, just the right amount of benignancy. Johnny could take a few notes.

As the story progresses it is revealed the man, Norman, is the proprietor of the motel the woman has taken refuge at. He invites her to dinner with his mother, things become heated over supper, and the woman returns to her motel room. Just as Becca has become disinterested in the dwindling story, something peculiar occurs. Something ominous, something sinister, something twisted and sick.

The man, once deemed charming and benevolent by Rebecca’s very own sentient, was now tastelessly peeping the winsome woman undress and strip down to the nude from a hole made through the walls. She must’ve made a face, one riddled with disgust and disbelief. She didn’t take him the type of man to be so vulgar.

But it doesn’t stop there, in fact, Becca’s attention averts fully to the story, her hand mindlessly waving about the nail polish cap as her eyes fixate on the screen. The man ceases his spectacle, just as the woman shuts the washroom door and steps into the shower.

No one could have explained what happened in that brain of hers, why she suddenly became to captivated. But as the woman rinses and scrubs her bare skin in a scene that borderlines pornography, Becca‘s attention is drawn to the graphic imagery. Fascinated and mesmerized, she inches out from her seat. Crawling from the sofa in an animalistic sense, hands stabilizing her body as she kneels against the cold, hard wood floors of the farmhouse. Never once does her stare remove itself from that television.

It’s a carnal exhibit of the sanguinary and viciously grim. A murderous collection of images that sickeningly captures the brutal stabbing of the young girl. Shrieking music and explicit camera shots of perfectly captured nudes as the blade penetrates in and out her wet torso, the water still pouring and intertwining in a tango with the thick blood that spills from the girl’s mutilated body. The killer stabs once, then twice, then thrice.

Becca cannot help the disgusting feeling that cudgels in her, the abominable desire for the obscene and uncouth. The effervescent fondness she has for the act of bloodshed and violence, the ravenous hunger for that which she’s lost. She thinks about it, imagine if she the killer and a boisterous man in that shower, her victim. The way she could dominate and make him feel so little, so useless.

She thinks back to the time she watched Sisters with Johnny. And the woman who so ruthlessly slaughtered men the way Becca wished she could do. She grew wary of seeing men prey on women, frustrated with the box the world had put her in. She could run a home far better than any man could, she could kill far worse than any man could, and she could be immensely more dangerous than any man could. She imagines herself in the killer’s place, pretends it’s Johnny in that shower as she catches him in such a vulnerable state. How downright horrible it was to prey on girl’s in such a weakened predicament.

The fantasy was delectably satiating. A beautiful desire fully realized. Rebecca doesn’t know whether or not to find the scene infuriating or inspiring. The thought of a man convicting such an act ignites the fire in her, but the idea of a role reversal is exhilarating. Just what she needs to take back the power of her perfect little life.

She crawls closer to the television, closing the space between her and it as she braces herself against her bare knees. Her head looms over the screen, observing as the killer vacates the scene and the woman, in her last, dying breaths grasps out for help. Only to be met with a collapsed shower curtain and her face flat against the tile floors. Water droplets dribble on her skin and her dark lashes clump together. She’s dead, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at nothing and her corpse still bursting with blood as it washes down the shower drain. The water still runs, but she’s gone.

The wolfish yearning swells in her, the urge becoming all most unbearable when presented with something as inhumane and mortal as this. The very thing she set out to distract herself from has only been made to grow with the invigorating art form. Her tremors develop to become more violent, her face contorting into an angry expression fueled by her cacoethes.

Her forehead is pressed against the now buzzing screen, hands clasped on either side of its metal frame as she shakes vigorously. The pads of her fingers press into the box gripping it tightly, fervently, feigning for some type of relief. Her knuckles burn white and those pretty eyes are open vast and wide as she continues to watch. She wants to see it again, and again, and again. The woman get stabbed to death by the no faced killer. The images play about in her brain, revealing themselves to her over and over again. She needs to see it a second time, perhaps a third.

There’s that fantasy again, the lethal and savage reverie of decimating a man and reducing him to chunks of dead meat. Only now she rethinks how she might do it. She’d still love to use that axe of hers, it had to be a staple in her routine. Her weapon of choice, so to speak. Instead of just hacking up their bodies into a heap of pieces perhaps she longed for something more degrading and humiliating, something that truly deduced them to the childish boys they were before she drug them through the anguish and suffering they deserved. Feasibly, she could use the shower to her advantage — just as the killer in Psycho had. She liked that, the idea of reversing the roles, being the unexpected. Going against the grain and changing the narrative. Make the men feel as though they were safe, protected. Only when they let their guards down would she swing open the shower curtain to take an axe to their naked bodies. The ideal concoction of both indignity and massacre, the perfect blend of torment and mortification. She’d start with their legs, they couldn’t do much if they couldn’t run. Then their arms, their dick, and then finally she’d revel in their tears of misery before severing their heads from their bodies. Through it all, she’d exude control. The very fate of their lives and wellbeing lied in her hands. Their endgame, the final outcome, it was hers to decide. She was playing God.

Then, her faultless illustration of class and reformation shatters. It doesn’t matter anymore, the only thing remaining is her need for the unattainable; the cruel and bloody.

Something in her just snapped.

Before she knew it, she was at the Sawyer’s doorstep banging against the screen and yelling on about Johnny and his obscenities.

“Johnny Sawyer you git yer’ ass out here right this second ‘fore I come in there and kick it out here for ya’!”

No answer.

“Johnny boy so help me God if I gotta come in there there’ll be hell to pay!”

Not even a sound.

“Johnny, now! I know you in there!”

The latch on the door clicks. She ceases her pounding and lowers her fist.

There he is, demoniac hallmarks as wickedly fine as ever and his stoic demeanor as though nothing was wrong at all. He sees her, sizes her up with his flagitious look and grins something ungodly and depraved. With a luciferin glint in those infernal eyes, he pulls the door open wide and leans leisurely against the doorframe. She thinks him privy to that devil, a fallen angel consumed by his own vain and pride.

Why he presumes as though nothing had happened between them is beyond her, as if he hadn’t just left her high and dry for two entire weeks without saying a damned word. He didn’t seem to see the fault in that, for he was still as cuntish as ever. It boiled her blood burning hot that he could act so indifferent, so unphased. Why couldn’t she of been the same.

“Darlin’, bout time you came around, how you been?” He nods his head towards her, folding his arms over his chest.

“Johnny Sawyer I swear to the great lord above you tell me what the hell is goin’ on and why you ain’t been comin’ bye no more huh? What kinda fuckin’ game you playin’?”

“Seemed like you needed some time to ya’ lonesome, had lots on yer mind I reckon.”

“That ain’t ever stopped you b’fore.” She leans in, gets real close. She can’t tell if he’s being smug with her or he actually means that horseshit.

“If I didn’t know any better darlin’ I’d say you’d missed me.”

“Johnny stop callin’ me darlin’, damnit. I’m tryna figure out just why the hell it is you make all this fuss bout a date then just up and disappear. After you had the audacity to say the things you said to me? Nu uh. No. I don’t think so, I don’t think so.”

Johnny pauses his speech and looks to the ground, smiling to himself as he sighs all most disappointingly. He stays there for a moment pondering her words and tapping his booted foot against the porch deck. He can feel her seething with contempt and rancor, her fiery sense burning that which her eyes glaze over. He didn’t expect her to be this distraught.

“I was tryna give you space. I knew you’d come see me when you was ready to.” He says ominously, alluding to some sort of thing she isn’t privy to. It sounds like a tease. His look moves upwards once more. He watches her carefully, dark eyes narrowing to her as she stares at him with a softened mien. One that perfectly emulates her degree of stupor and disbelief. Her brows arched upwards and her sapphire irises tender with the realization of her mistake.

It was one hell of an epiphany. She felt the truth of the matter rattle her core, disrupting her every thought as her misconceptions of Johnny Sawyer came thrashing down just as quick as her pestilent and relentless execration. He was telling the truth. And she doesn’t know what to be more upset over; the fact she’d so badly misjudged his morals or him, for humiliating her and causing so much bedlam and disorder.

Still she cannot bring herself to fully succumb to his cogent charms. Her bitterness had grown much too strong and she despised the way he melted her with the smooth sound of his voice or the graze of his hand. She hated all the emotions he made her feel, the way he made her insides churn and flip. She hasn’t forgotten the past two weeks, it was still all his fault.

The all too familiar feeling of her composure slipping floods in. With it the uncanny shakes of her body as she looks to him with crazy eyes, maddened. This is his fault. She tries so hard to hate him, but he makes it so hard to do so.

“God damnit Johnny I try so hard to hate you but you makin’ this too damn difficult!”

It becomes too much to bare, her trembling body heating up and turning a fiery red. She hates him still, but not for the same reasons she had before. This time it was much, much different. She couldn’t fathom the way he invaded her every thought and infected that which she cherished. He was like a virus the way he weaseled his way into her every single aspect of her life. There’s a faint hint of that rage she felt the very first time he broke her temper, and it was just enough to push her over the edge. Her hands form fists when her tremors become more fervent and before either of them can tell it the right fist comes crashing into his jaw with a fleshy thump. Johnny groans, cocking his head back and rubbing the spot with his palm.

He doesn’t find himself angry, though. He knew how she was and this wasn’t anything foreign to him. She’ll regret that later, he’s sure of that. It wasn’t that he thought he deserved it, but he knew good and well he’d toyed with her enough trying to figure out the type of girl she was. Now that he knew, he should’ve been more careful not to tick her off. Still, the intense yearning bellows in his gut and he all most lashes out at her like before, but he’s able to keep his calm. Instead he nods his head, tweaking his neck slightly before he plants his gaze on her.

“Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

Becca’s visage softens, once a scowl turning to a look of confusion and concern. She’d expected him to get angry, fight back, that was what she’d known him to do. She needed his anger and temper to justify her own ludicrous behavior. But he didn’t, he just took it without any quarrels. It was a decent hit too, she can see the red and purple forming on his jaw.

And he can so clearly see the dumbfounding in her face.

Admittedly though she feels a pang of guilt plague her consciousness. Now Rebecca was never the apologetic type, not genuinely, not unless it was someone she longed to impress. Be it the guilt or the gushy feelings he elicited from her, she felt the need to clear the air. After all, he proved himself to have a certain chivalrous quality about him. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as she initially made him out to be. Maybe, just maybe.

“Now I was ‘bout to head into town to grab a few things, how’s bout you come along with me and we talk bout all this?” With that, he shuts the door. The jingling of keys sounding as he passes by her.

“Fine. Only cause I ain’t finished with you just yet.” She’s reluctant to go but stern in her ways, she needs more answers. Her cold look sharpens as she turns to him.

“Fair ‘nough, you can count this as our second date.” He opens the passenger side of his truck for her and she moves toward the door, grabbing the hand her offers as she throws herself into the seat.

“Not quite that, watch yer self.”

“The two of us all alone, out in town, talkin’ and playin’, sounds lots like a date to me. Doncha’ think darlin’?” He’s only playing with her, a sheepish grin over his mouth as he chuckles heartily.

“You pushin’ yer luck.” She slams shut the rusted truck door. Johnny follows suit, stepping into the drivers side and starting up the spasmodic engine. The familiar sound of the intermittent misfires play before it shakes the cabin and comes to life, just as he shifts gears and heads up the drive and onto county road 172.

A contrast to their first car ride together, this one is not full of disdainful silence and trivial niceties. Rather a productive conversation initiated by Becca, who struggles to bind together her chaotic thoughts and piece together how she truly felt. Bouncing from one side of the spectrum to the other, she’s quick to relish in the frustration of her own emotional compass. Unable to navigate the complexities her brain conjures up.

“Listen,” she starts, nervous with the thought of being courteous to him. “I thought you were different.”

“How’s that?” Johnny only laughs, his eyes focused on the road as he drives.

“Momma had a lover like you.” Her eyes look to him solemnly, with no judgement or prior animosity. A truly sullen look, morose. “I hated him.”

“Well what’s that got to do with it?” Johnny clicks his tongue, looking to her a bit skeptically.

“Guess I thought you was the same typa boy. The type to bring about trouble and ruin lives, break a girl’s heart. Ya’ know? I was wrong though, and I’m real sorry ‘bout that.”

“And where’s that momma of yer’s now huh?”

There’s a halt in her speech, a distinct pause while she looks to him with wide, scary eyes. It’s creepy how sunken her features appear when she looks this way, macabre and deadly.

“She’s dead.”

“But damnit I can’t stand boys like that, despise ‘em. The type who think they can take advantage of a woman like me tch. Well I ain’t naive or a whore.”

Ironic considering the fact Johnny was a self proclaimed serial killer who preyed on clueless women in the same sense.

“I’ll tell ya’ something, you ain’t all wrong,” Johnny pipes up, caliginous eyes examine her for a moment as he removes them from the drive. “I kill girls. I weed ‘em out and make ‘em think they’s special. You know that. And when they do inevitably fall for me, I take ‘em back home and butcher ‘em up. I prey on those naive little creatures, they’re easy to catch.” She seems to be stoic and somewhat perturbed, but he only presses on. “But I told you before and I’ll tell you again, you’s different miss Rebecca Payne. And whether you’ve admit it yet or not, you yer’ selfs a killer too. You’d like to prey on boys and do the same thing as I, I know it. That, or you already have. Makes you special.”

It isn’t difficult for her to deduce that he once again speaks the truth.

She doesn’t know whether to be petrified in terror or delighted that he understood. She knows it should be the ladder, but she can’t help but feel complacent and comfortable near him. She’s calm. In a mind full of inhumane and otherwise immoral thoughts he made her feel normal and sane.

“You ain’t all wrong about me either,” she fesses. “I ain’t ever killed a man before Johnny.” She’s not forgotten the weeks of suffering and torment endured at his hand, rather she’s reached a standstill. A point where she cannot bring herself to be upset with a man who understood her so well, one who made her feel so stable, so perfect. “But I dream about the dozens of ways I’d do it.”

“That’s my girl.”

—

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭! - 𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

@yixxes @bdudette @nerdykat101 @kaymarnun

72 notes · View notes