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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

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˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

.….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ.. .

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⛨ summary: you’re not obsessed with him. you’re not. but the world clearly is. strange articles. sneaky algorithms. and a voice in your head that won’t shut up. meanwhile, invincible’s got his own problem: he can’t find the girl who called him out like a scrub tech on a bad day.

⛨ contains: sfw. nurse carla’s mischief. media-induced annoyance. early emotional foreshadowing. reader in denial. mark being haunted by words and mystery. parallel narration. bonus scene chaos.

⛨ warnings: mild language. internet stalking (light). stubbornness. minor delusion. no real threats—just a very determined destiny.

⛨ wc: 2146

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: fun fact—i lost half of this chapter mid-edit because my wifi decided to flatline like a soap opera character. dramatic gasp, hospital monitor beep, the whole deal. one second i’m tweaking a paragraph, the next i’m staring at the void where 800 words used to be. i almost fought my router. bare-fisted. anyway, here it is—risen from the ashes, caffeinated, and slightly more unhinged than originally planned. enjoy my suffering.

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The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You know this. You’ve always known this.

You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by people coughing on your scrubs and trying to die inconveniently. You’ve stitched up knife wounds caused by things described as “accidents,” told grown men they’re not, in fact, dying from a sore throat, and once had to remove a Lego from a place no Lego should ever be.

But lately, it feels personal.

There’s been a shift. A pattern. A very specific, very annoying theme threading itself through your life like the world’s most persistent pop-up ad.

It’s not love. It’s not fate.

It’s him.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You tap your phone’s screen with more passive aggression than necessary, holding it to your ear even though you know your (only) friend won’t pick up.

Beep.

“Okay, listen—I’m not spiraling. I’m not.”

(Pause. Sip. Another pause.)

“But if one more news article, thirst edit, or random merch featuring that man—shows up in my general vicinity, I will commit a felony. Probably a creative one.”

(Beat.)

“And no—before you say it—it’s not a crush. I don’t have time for crushes. I have sleep deprivation and a spine held together by caffeine.”

(Silence.)

“He’s not even that hot.”

You hang up.

Regret it. Immediately.

And that’s when it hits you—

You’re not obsessed with him.

You’re not.

You’ve been into people before—celebrities, coworkers, a random guy who pronounced your name right on the first try—but this isn’t that. You’re not delusional. You’re tired. You have a full-time job, a chaotic sleep schedule, and at least two stress migraines scheduled for the week.

You’re not obsessed.

The entire world, on the other hand, clearly is.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a newspaper.

A real one. Paper and ink and everything. You’re halfway through your first sip of coffee (not bad, not cursed) when you spot it, splayed open on the front counter like it tripped and fell into your line of sight.

’Invincible saves subway commuters in mid-derailment battle.’

There’s a photo. Midair. Bloodied knuckles. Hero pose. That obnoxious blue-yellow suit.

You blink at it once. Twice. The espresso tastes more bitter somehow.

“…Carla,” you call out, slowly.

A soft shuffle from the break room. “Mhm?”

You tilt your head toward the paper. “Is that yours?”

“Nope,” she chirps, far too quickly.

You squint.

Carla reappears moments later with a tea mug that says ’I am the storm’ in passive-aggressive font and absolutely does not make eye contact as she walks past you.

She hums.

The kind of hum that implies dark intentions.

You stare at the paper like it personally insulted your scrubs.

That’s strike one.

Strike two comes via TikTok. Or… Instagram Reels. Or whatever godforsaken app the algorithm has you trapped in.

You’re lying on your couch on your one night off, a warm takeout container on your lap, the lights dimmed just enough to make it feel like self-care. You open your phone to zone out. Maybe scroll through food mukbangs. A few raccoon videos. Rewatch that one clip from ’The Bear’ for the emotional damage.

Instead, the second video to pop up is a slow-motion fan edit of Invincible. Set to a remix of a 2000s ballad.

You stare at your phone in silence as the hero who bloodied his way through your afternoon is now being thirsted after by teenagers in the comments.

You swipe up fast enough to sprain something.

Then another pops up.

And another.

And—oh, good god. This one’s tagged #invincibae.

You throw your phone facedown on your stomach like it’s contagious.

You’re not angry. You’re not even annoyed.

You’re just trying to have one singular crumb of peace in this godless world, and the masked himbo you verbally body-checked in the middle of a disaster won’t stop invading your downtime.

You eventually find a rerun of ’House MD’ and watch a patient nearly die from licking envelopes, which feels more comforting than it should.

You’re not obsessed.

(But maybe you do glare at a passing bus with his face on the side. Just a little.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

By the end of the week, it gets worse.

You’re at the pharmacy grabbing gauze, extra gloves, and the least offensive granola bar in existence when you see the merch.

Merch.

A corner display stacked with shirts and water bottles and pins. There’s a plushie. A plushie. Of him.

You pause, granola bar halfway to your basket.

A kid next to you picks up the Invincible water bottle and turns to his mom. “Do you think he drinks from this too?”

You visibly clench your jaw.

At that exact moment, your phone dings.

You pull it out with the practiced grace of someone who lives and dies by their calendar app—only to find a suggested article on your lock screen.

’Why Invincible Might Be the Most Relatable Hero Yet!’

You could scream.

Instead, you mutter, “I patched up his concussion while inhaling drywall dust. He was seeing double and still arguing with me.”

The cashier stares at you.

You move on.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The final straw?

A patient brings him up.

Middle of a wound check, nothing dramatic. A few stitches, topical numbing, your hands moving on autopilot. You’re explaining aftercare, bandage changes, when the patient—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—smiles at you and says:

“You kinda remind me of Invincible, y’know? Like, you’re calm under pressure and.. kind of badass.”

You blink.

Smile politely. “Cool.”

Inside, your soul shrivels.

You are not him.

You don’t throw punches. You don’t fly. You don’t have a theme song or fan cams or merchandise.

You have an overtime shift on Sunday and a stress knot in your shoulder that’s starting to feel like a second spine.

But the universe doesn’t care.

You’re not obsessed.

You just can’t escape.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t remember your face.

Not clearly, anyway.

The smoke had blurred the details, painted you in silhouettes and urgency. You weren’t the loudest voice in the chaos—just the sharpest. Crisp, cutting, sure of yourself in a way that made his head spin more than the actual concussion.

But your voice?

He remembers that like it’s stitched into the inside of his skull.

Low. Stern. Half-sarcastic and half-soothing. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for bullshit, which—given the circumstances—made sense.

He was bleeding from the ribs. The city was literally burning.

Still, the memory echoes:

“Don’t say fine.”

“You’re favoring your left.”

“You shouldn’t be flying.”

Mark exhales hard, slumping deeper into the worn couch. The TV’s on but silent. Some old action movie flickers in the corner of his vision. It’s supposed to be background noise.

But nothing is loud enough to drown you out.

He doesn’t know your name.

Doesn’t know what you do, where you’re from, if you even survived the aftermath unscathed.

All he knows is that you made him feel—briefly, dangerously—human.

Not a symbol. Not a name in headlines. Just a guy who was bleeding too much and doing too little.

And he can’t stop hearing you.

“You’re zoning out again,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

Mark flinches, barely registering the sound of the fridge opening.

“Sorry. Just tired.”

Debbie hums skeptically and tosses him a cold can of soda. “You’ve said that every day this week.”

“I am tired.”

“You’re also muttering to yourself like a haunted Victorian widow. Anything I should know?”

Mark cracks the can open with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead like the wall is going to give him divine guidance.

“I met someone,” he says finally.

Debbie doesn’t react. Just leans against the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Okay. And?”

“She yelled at me.”

Still silence.

“And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

There it is.

Debbie snorts into her cup. “That’s it? That’s what’s got you acting like a sad poet?”

He shifts. “It’s not just that. She—she saw right through me. In like, five seconds. Called out every injury I hadn’t processed yet. Told me I wasn’t fine before I could even lie about it.”

“And this was… romantic?”

“No!” Mark frowns. “I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know anything about her. I couldn’t even see her face.”

“Okay, now it’s giving Victorian ghost story.”

“She saved a kid.”

Debbie blinks.

“In the middle of it all. Ran straight into debris and smoke. People tried to stop her and she looked at me like I was the liability.”

He doesn’t mention the way your hands shook but never stopped moving. Or the way you lied—beautifully, horribly—just to keep that child alive a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t mention how it made something in his chest ache.

“She sounds amazing,” Debbie says, more gently now.

“She was,” he mutters. “And now she’s just… gone.”

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The thing is, Mark’s not usually like this.

He gets hit, he gets up. He saves people, and he moves on. Faces blur. Names fade. It’s how he copes.

But this? This isn’t fading.

It’s getting worse.

He’ll be flying over the city and see a flash of hair that looks vaguely like yours—and he’ll nearly crash into a billboard turning to check. His neck has started clicking. He’s going to need chiropractic help and therapy.

He doesn’t even know you, but he’s half-convinced he’ll know when he sees you again.

He’s waiting for it.

And that thought alone is ridiculous.

Because he doesn’t wait. Not for danger. Not for hope. Not for anyone.

Except now, apparently, for you.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

More than once, he’s hovered outside hospitals and urgent care clinics on patrol. Just a few seconds. Just in case.

He makes excuses for it, of course:

• You never know when you might be needed.

• Some med centers don’t have enough security.

• Maybe he’s being responsible.

But then he hears a nurse’s laugh and it isn’t yours.

And he flies off like a coward.

Not even a few minutes later there’s a robbery in Midtown.

Small-time. Two guys. One has a crowbar. The other trips over his shoelace trying to run.

Mark’s on it in sixty seconds flat.

It’s easy—should be, anyway—but his timing’s off. He lands too hard, shoulder twinges wrong. The guy gets one good swing in before Mark sends him flying (not too far).

It’s done in under a minute.

And still—he’s breathless. Not from the fight, but from the feeling.

The missing.

The what if you’d seen that and thought I was sloppy kind of missing.

He doesn’t say anything as he lifts the guy’s dropped phone and hands it off to the store clerk. They thank him. He nods.

Flies away.

He doesn’t go far.

Just lands on some apartment roof, crouches by the ledge, and lets his hands tangle in his hair for a minute.

The city stretches below him, loud and alive.

But all he wants to find is a blur in the chaos that isn’t there.

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Later that night, he lies in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer closure.

It doesn’t.

It’s just drywall and shadows and everything you saw through.

His notebook lies half-open next to him—not forgotten, just untouched, like a question he doesn’t know how to answer yet.

It’s not a journal—he doesn’t do feelings that way—but sometimes, when his head’s too loud and his hands need something to do, he sketches. Nothing fancy. Just lines. Shapes. Impressions.

Tonight, it’s you.

Or, what he remembers of you. Which isn’t much.

Your face is a blur. Hair? A vague impression. Maybe dark. Maybe not. But your hands—he remembers those. Quick, steady, smudged with ash. Your posture. How you stood slightly in front of the child like a shield, chin up, like fear was something for other people.

He’s drawn the same half-profile six times now. None of them are right.

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and flips the page over.

Maybe he’s not trying to get it right.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

But the voice stays with him.

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Clinic break room. You. Tired.

You sneeze—violently.

Again.

You rub your nose with the heel of your palm, the tip of it already reddish from overuse, and a dramatic groan leaves your throat as you sink into the unforgiving plastic chair.

“This is some kind of karmic punishment,” you mutter to no one in particular. “Like, I must’ve offended a witch. Or touched something cursed.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” offers a random nurse from across the room.

You glare at her. “I’m immune to sickness.”

Then of course, Carla appears behind you, perfectly timed as always.

“Maybe someone’s thinking about you,” she says, casual as rain, not even glancing your way before walking off.

You blink. Deadpan.

Then sneeze again.

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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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charliemwrites · 11 months ago

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Greater Bad - Part 5!

This is the final chapter of this series. I had so much fun working on it, making myself write a character that was genuinely just really mean most of the time and not chickening out by softening him (mostly).

Again, a gigantic, smooch-filled thank you to ceilidho for letting me write this based off her drabble/concept.

(The concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Semi-Safe/Not-Sane/Dub-Con Intimacy

You still smell the same.

Clean water, soap and skin. It saturates the back of his tongue when he inhales deep. The sharp, cloying scent of printer ink has been replaced by the buttery aroma of bread and sugar. It’s better. His mouth waters, canines too big and sharp in his mouth, jawing aching to bite down until he’s teething on bone. Scrape his imprint into marrow.

Some shrink mentioned it in those first sessions, before Laswell and Price realized their precious Johnny wasn’t lost in the hole in his temple.

The human olfactory sense is strongly associated with our memory. What smells like home to you, Soap?

The jagged puzzle of his mind didn’t have a piece for home. But it had one for his – you – and that’s just as good.

The humidity in the shower leaves him drowning in the scent of you, lungs heaving. If they’d waterboarded him with your perfume, he wouldn’t have struggled at all.

“Easy, easy,” your voice derails him.

Velvet and smooth, purring in the bottom of your throat. It bounces off the walls and cracks across his skull, a concussive force, disorients him. He grips tighter to keep his balance, swaying into you. You’re all slick and soft, caught between his body and the wall, nothing but naked skin and those big eyes that drive him more mad.

His face is still buried in the vulnerable curve of your neck; you taste just as good as you smell. You jump when he nips, a high noise caught on your clumsy tongue. He growls, wants to hear it. Wants to be overwhelmed by you until all his senses are blown out.

“I’m not saying no,” you soothe, hands skittering down his biceps.

Of course you’re not, not his girl. It’s not a matter of yes or no, not for the two of you. The moon doesn’t agree to orbit the Earth, the sun doesn’t choose to shine. You’re the gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

“Slow down a bit,” you murmur, “We’re not in a rush, are we?”

Just hearing you say “we” sends his heart thundering double-time and euphoria flooding his poisoned veins. “We” - you and him. You squeak as he thrusts hard against your lower stomach, where you’re pillowy and perfect from a life of plenty.

He doesn’t even process what you’ve said for a few moments, too busy nibbling “we” into your shoulder. Only when you thread shaky fingers into his hair – too excited to keep them steady, sweet thing – does his head surface over the swelling waves of desire to hear you properly.

“Missed you,” he explains, raking fingers over your thigh in hopes it’ll bruise. Your mouth parts on a gasp, inviting him in. He ravages your mouth, teeth snagging your plush lips. Needs to leave his mark everywhere for always. Don’t you get that? How could you ask him to slow down when your skin is still pristine, your cunt all tight and unspoiled – a fucking tragedy that.

“Ye missed me too, aye?” he asks. Of course you did, of course. Made this pretty little cottage for the two of you, filled it with so many things that he could never forget where he is again.

“I ken ye did.” He does you the favor of answering, since you’re too busy with his fingers in your mouth. You’ve gotten better with your priorities since that first reunion, laving your tongue over and between his digits rather than waste it on idle chatter. “Can go slow once I show yer mine. Been too fuckin’ long they kept us apart, little bird.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist. Must be satisfied with how wet they are, then. He presses down on your tongue one last time before pulling away.

“B-but you took care of them… we don’t need to—ah!”

He smirks as your entire body jolts. You’re already starting to warm up, but your saliva makes the slide between your delicate folds even easier. You’re just as silky as last time, clit shy at the top of your slit. He coos in your ear, gets you flushing and hot from filthy promises.

“Ye wan’ this just as much as I do,” he growls. Poor thing, he knows you like your little games and he’s being impatient. But it’s been too long and you’re playing with fire. “I ken ye do. Tell me ye do.”

You stutter in shock – if he still felt guilt, he’d feel bad for doubting you – and stumble over your words. He stills his hand to help you, bracing his arm over your head. The stretch of his body seems to distract you, mouth parted but frustratingly quiet as your round eyes roam scars and muscle.

He clicks his tongue and pinches your clit to catch your attention. You yelp, little nails sinking into his chest. He rumbles. It feels good, but he’s on a mission.

“Tell me,” he repeats when you blink up at him. “Tell me.”

“I-I just want to be able to go again,” you babble. “If I’m too sore…”

He chuckles. Is that all? “That won’ stop me, love. We’ll go plenty.”

You whine as he draws tight circles over your clit, coaxing it hard and swollen.

“I d-don’ wanna be t-too… sore! Christ!”

He huffs, caught between amusement and exasperation. Voice of reason you are, he knows you’ve got a point. Big as he is, and he knows he’ll lose any sense of restraint once he’s inside.

“I’ll make it good, bonnie,” he promises, biting kisses along your trembling jaw. “You’ll cum crying if tha’s what it takes.”

With that matter settled, he drops his head to your pretty tits. Water has beaded all over them and he jealously licks paths between each drop, flattening his tongue over your hard nipples. You moan and squeal as he sucks and nips, teasing them sensitive and achy. One of your hands tangles in his hair and tugs. Tingles race down his spine, scattering any sweet thoughts of going slow or gentle or with restraint.

You’re babbling at him but nothing could be more important than the rosettes he’s biting into your breasts. And you must agree because you’re getting so wet, leaking all over his rough palm, bucking your hips. He tilts the heel of his hand for you to grind against while he prods at your slick little hole.

You really have been good, somehow even tighter than he remembers. Of course, you were; he never doubted you. No wonder you were so insistent on prepping. He’d split you in half as you are now – fuck but that’s tempting.

“S-Soap – John. Please don’t… stop.”

“I won’ stop, birdie,” he soothes. Nothing could make him stop now.

Two is probably too much for you, but he loves the punched out little noise you make when he forces them in. The way your entrance clings and squeezes around his knuckles. How your spine goes tight and stiff, tilting your head back so that he has access to your singing throat. Pretty face all scrunched up as you struggle to adjust, stinging too much to even squirm. A flighty little bird right in the palm of his hand.

You’re so hot and wet inside. Feel fucking heavenly. Coating him in arousal, in need. His cock is aching to replace his fingers, feel you strangling him down to the base. Grinding against your thigh isn’t tiding him over anymore.

“Yer hand,” he grits out, “on my cock. Now.”

You shudder and circle the head, fingers tentative. Little tease.

He thrusts his fingers into you hard in retaliation, hips driving into the loose tunnel you’ve made. You must know what you’re doing, goading him on like this, plucking at his fraying patience.

“More,” he snarls, “or I’m going to use you like a fleshlight.” (Sooner than he was planning, anyway.)

You whimper and close your hand tighter, rubbing your thumb just under the head. Relief makes him generous, scissoring those two fingers inside you, easing you open. Lets you grind your clit on the meat of his thumb.

He crooks his fingers and finds a spot that has you mewling all sweet and precious. Does it over and over just to get your hand squeezing rhythmically around his shaft, precum dribbling over the back of your knuckles.

Christ, it’s been so long that he thinks he could blow just from this. Your voice in his ear, drooling pussy wrapped around his fingers, grinding into the open circle of your hand. But he needs to be inside you when he cums, he has to.

You don’t even seem to notice the third finger until it’s halfway inside, prying you open. Your legs buckle, knees shaking. He catches you with an arm around your waist, but it squishes you against his chest, the arm you’ve been stroking him with nearly immobilized. He can only stand the lack of stimulation for a few moments, occupying himself with his tongue down your throat.

“Enough,” he rasps, kicking the shower off.

Dazed, you blink at him in confusion, half-lidded and guileless, panting. He wants to fucking ruin you.

You yelp as he scoops you up, fingers still slippery where they grip your thigh. He croons as you cling, asking in a high, nervous voice where he’s going.

“Poor thing, dick’s not even in yet ‘n yer all addled.”

The dripping head of his cock grinds against your sopping slit as he carries you back to the bedroom. He remembers how much you liked it before – and you still do, your blunt little teeth buried in your bottom lip as you whimper.

It’s still dark, the crescent moon no use to your weak eyes. Like hell you won’t look at him when he finally claims you proper.

He slaps at the wall switch, a tiny lamp flicking to life across the room. You’re bathed in soft golden light, deep shadows swimming where it doesn’t reach. You and him, gold and black, light and dark.

He eagerly lays you out on the blanket, drinking in the marks decorating your upper body. You even have teeth prints on your arm that he doesn’t remember putting there – fetching, though.

You wiggle further up the mattress, and he follows, flashing a grin as he plants his hands on either side of you. The size difference is stark like this, the breadth of him subsuming you. Safe, tucked away, all his. Your breathing is loud as he bullies his way between your plush thighs again. You have to spread them so wide just to accommodate.

“Lemme see,” he says, voice barely leaving his chest. “Lemme see her. It’s been so long, baby.”

He can already tell you’re about to start up the fussing again – so shy, his little bird, but he’ll get you singing nice and loud now. No more of this demure chirping facade. You both know what you really are.

You squeal as he forces your thighs up, far enough apart that you babble that you don’t bend that way. Of course you do, though, you’ve just done it. Not that he really hears you by that point.

No, all his attention is on that gleaming, puffy pussy. So fucking pretty. Sticky and throbbing, your hole hardly showing the stretch of three fingers. Dripping as he watches, a dewy glob of arousal sliding down the seam of your cunt, towards your ass.

Just the slightest shift and his cock is nestled between your folds, the glans chafing against your hot clit. He measures the depth of it against your abdomen, head cloudy on the nervous whine that eeks from your throat.

Even with prep, he might break you anyway.

He hopes he does. Break you around him, shape you to him so that no one else will fit – not that anyone else will ever get the chance.

It’s not a conscious thought that gathers saliva on his tongue, purses his lips. You jump when he spits, rubbing the head of his cock through your combined fluids. Your cunt looks good in white. Like a bride.

You’re too needy, wiggling with nervous anticipation. He has to hold you down while he sinks into you – poor thing too blissed out to control yourself. One hand around your wrists above your head, the other pinning your hips at an angle to drive in as easily as possible.

One snap of his hips, and he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out, shuddering and dry sobbing. His vision goes spotty with the pleasure of it, your little pussy squeezing. You’re so…

“Fucking perfect.”

He shushes you, unable to bend to kiss you without making the stretch worse. Settles for rubbing circles into your hip, twisting to lace your fingers together. Now that he’s finally, finally where he belongs, it doesn’t seem such a monumental task to muster some patience.

“B-big,” you whimper. “You’re t-too big. I d-don’t – I can’t…!”

“You already are,” he coos, “little girl taking this fat cock, I’m so proud. My girl is so brave, my little bird. Bonnie lass.”

He’s rambling now, a dirty stream of consciousness. But that primal urge to fuck you open and loose and stupid is already clawing at him again. The tight clutch of your cunt calls for him to break you in, mark you up on the inside. Claim you as his irrevocably.

You feel him drawing back, eyes flying open wide. Writhing, half-formed protests on your tongue - that you’re not ready, that he’s too big, that it still hurts.

As if that’s any reason to stop, when anything needs to sting a bit to leave a lasting mark.

“Only way to make it hurt less,” he reminds, burying inside again. This time he rolls his hips, grinding the head of his cock along your satiny walls, against the hard barrier of your cervix.

Whatever you’re about to say is swept off in a wave of moans, washing over your wet tongue and down the back of your too-empty throat. Every time you try to gather them, he fucks back into you, hard enough to bounce you up the bed before he tugs you right back down.

Eventually you give up on doing anything but keening for him, massaging his cock from root to tip in those twitching walls. You loop your legs around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back, knees squeezing against his ribs.

“Tha’s it, love,” he slurs, “jus’ take it.”

He lets your wrists go to clutch at both of your hips, angling them as he straightens his back. On the next thrust you scream, curse, throw your hands up to brace against the headboard. Smart girl.

His restraint unravels with each thrust until he’s pounding into you, slamming the bedframe into the wall. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull, jaw loose, spilling pathetic, weepy “ah, ah, ah” noises in time with his hips. He’s not going to last long at all. Not when you feel so goddamn good, finally claimed.

He presses his thumb against your clit and grins wickedly as you thrash. Tears leak from your unfocused eyes. You babble incoherently as he rubs a little rougher than he should, but your walls are sucking and clutching at every centimeter of him, so he doesn’t stop.

Even when you seize up, back bent into a sharp arch, clamping down so tight that he goes lightheaded.

“Soap! John… John it’s too much,” you sob. “John – Johnny!”

His orgasm blindsides him, makes him fuck you so hard that something in the bed cracks. In the haze, he flattens you to the mattress while bucking into you, not taking any chance of coming unseated. You whine in his ear but go limp, resigned to his cock spurting at the entrance to your womb – as deep as he can get – your cunt milking him for every drop.

He comes back to himself when you tap weakly at his hip, uncoordinated.

“Hm?” he asks, a little miffed that you’re disturbing his afterglow already.

“Hard to breathe,” you squeak.

He huffs. Alright, suppose he can understand that. Besides, he wants to see you.

And what a sight you make, splayed out and shaky on pleasure. Sweat at your hairline, lips swollen and bitten. He can still feel your pulse against his cock.

He sits himself up, eyes trailing down to the place where you’re joined. His cum is already seeping out a bit at a time, a thin creamy ring around his still half-hard cock. You keen a bit when it twitches.

“Pretty girl,” he coos.

You groan softly, flopping an arm over your glassy eyes as he pulls out – slow because he’s reluctant to leave.

But the sight of your slick diluting the milky white of his cum is too much to resist. You jolt at the first swipe of his tongue, react much faster than he’s expecting. Flip onto your front and try to scramble away. He growls at his stolen prize and pounces.

Under normal circumstances, you’re no match for him. Trembling and spent like this, you don’t stand a chance.

He grabs your calf and yanks you back, chuckling at the helpless stretch of your arms. You try to plead your case, but he’s hearing none of it. Plants his hand against your back as he shuffles onto his stomach, your thighs over his shoulders, knees digging into muscle. He tilts your hips with his other hand, thumb fitted in the crease of your pelvis, and brings you to his mouth.

Your struggling has made more spend leak out, and he laps it all up hungrily, tongue flat and ravenous. Sweeping from clit to hole to gather any stray droplets, even skimming over the tight furl of your ass. He licks into your loosened hole, high on pride at the difference he can feel his cock has made.

“’S too much,” you wail, “J-Johnny, please. I-I can’t, it’s…”

In retaliation, he slurps loudly at the fresh arousal blooming across his tongue. You hiccup, try one last time to wriggle away. He can’t have that.

You shriek as he fucks two fingers into you, voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. But you stop trying to escape. He doesn’t show mercy now that you’re behaving, coaxing more out, licking around his own knuckles. When he sucks at your overstimulated clit, you jerk and whine.

“I’m – I’m gonna… feels… w-wait, wait!”

It’s too late. He’s already laved his tongue over your trapped clit, crooked his fingers. You cum again with a shout, wetness splashing across his mouth, chin, down his neck. He groans, deep and rough in his chest. Doesn’t even give you a moment to recover before he pulls away, licking his lips.

“Do tha’ again on my cock.”

You’ve learned better now though – you lay there like a good girl as he stuffs you full again. Even better, you keep rewarding him with your soft cries of pleasure.

You really are made for him.

He likes the couch you picked. Not very big, but cushy. Besides, the two of you don’t need a lot of room anyway. Not when his lap makes a perfectly good seat for you.

You’ve been quiet all morning – probably still waking up from the coma he fucked you into. Eating babka from his fingers, licking them clean between bites. Docile and sweet, melting against his chest with your face tucked against his collarbone.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

Your sweet little voice is all hoarse and soft. He’d coo if he didn’t think he’d be pushing his luck with skin so close to your teeth.

“Maybe I’ll massage you later,” he offers, smirking at the grumpy little “hmph” he gets in response.

He encourages you to sip a bit of water before your voice emerges again.

“What happens now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the question.

“Now I get the life I’m owed,” he answers. All that fighting, suffering, bleeding, dying – and for what? A hole in his skull and his own goddamn people thinking he’s a monster. Even you, at first. You’ve learned, though. He’s sure of it. The rest can swallow bullets for all he cares.

“What if they come back?” you ask.

He hums. “Might contract with someone. Not opposed to killin’ on principle – just sick of doin’ it to someone else’s tune, aye?”

“Wh-what… what about…”

What about you. Poor thing, afraid Laswell and her ilk will snatch you up and dangle you in front of him again. Or worse – some other sod drooling for a slice of heaven in the pits of hell.

He doesn’t loosen his grip even when you shift a bit – needs to feel you in his hands.

“Got a plan for that, don’ you fret, little bird,” he soothes. “Still got one friend, I think. Jus’ gotta find ‘im.”

You exhale slowly, accept another piece of babka. “We’re stayin’ here, though?” you mumble around the mouthful.

He chuckles. Sweet little thing.

“Worked so hard on the place, might as well. Don’ care so long as I’ve got my bird, aye?”

“Mm.”

“How ‘bout a kitty, eh? Get ya somethin’ to keep ye company when I’m away.”

You swallow audibly. “I wan’ a dog. Big one.”

He chuckles. “’Course ye do. Aye, love, a big fuck-off dog to keep ya safe.”

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19catsncounting · 10 months ago

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I Got Really Into Anti/Proship Discourse And Read +30 Academic Studies - My Findings

(It’s a Yapfest but the whole post is a very long essay and study on morality and fiction and children’s safety and rape culture with a fuckton of freely accessible academic articles and resources on the subject, and I want to talk to other people about it. For a shorter abstract with all the articles and more easily ignored yapping, see my shiny new Carrd:)

It’s been a little shocking lately to have certain discussions with some parts of fandom. I spoke about shipping/harassment and how that contributes to the death of fandom on TikTok assuming that younger folks are just really, really intense about preventing sexual violence, but the more I saw the words “morally wrong” and “disgusting” and “addiction,” the more I thought about this guy-

That’s Jerry Falwell, and I fucking hate this dead guy. You see, Jerry Falwell was a preacher who hated porn, feminism, and homosexuality. And I'm seeing his rhetoric and reworked quotes a lot.

Jerry would say stuff like:

“Pornography hurts anyone who reads it - garbage in, garbage out.”

“Someone must not be afraid to say ‘moral perversion is wrong.’ If we do not act now, homosexuals will ‘own’ America!”

Jerry wanted people to believe that it’s possible to see so much sexual content that it warps your sexuality, because he was gay and wanted to think that was due to thinking about gay sex too much. Jerry did not have a lot of evidence to prove that homosexuality was harmful, so he relied heavily on how “morally distasteful” it seemed to be to suburban Americans.

I spent the majority of my teen years arguing against Jerry’s rhetoric for the right to live as a lesbian online, and I never thought I’d see morality rhetoric in people I’m otherwise very politically aligned with. And I definitely never thought fandom of all things, in all its beautiful subversive glory, would seriously start advocating for censorship, anti-porn, and to consume fanwork with moral purity.

So, I’d like to have a deeper discussion on it, both here on Tumblr and on TikTok, but that does mean checking a few things at the door:

Personal feelings decide your personal life. What you feel is valid for you, not anyone else.

In general, things that do not cause direct and undeniable harm should not be broadly prohibited just because they’re weird or distasteful to the majority of folks. Ex. Loitering does not cause harm and is a tool of systemic oppression.

The discussion of “fictional CSEM” is the most inflammatory fork of this and it is often used to derail these kinds of conversations. This is all I will say on it - the legal status of explicit visual depictions of minors is muddy. In the US, there is just one dude in Utah who pled guilty for possessing explicit lolicon he bought by mail order without also possessing CSEM with real children, and explicit writing about fictional minors has been settled as protected free speech. Dedicated organizations from the NCMEC to Chris Hansen have asked that fictional content is not reported as CSAM as it is not actionable and clogs up finite resources. 90% of NCMEC reports were not actionable last year. There are studies suggesting that virtual CSEM or other non-victim alternatives could reduce actual child harm, but there is need for further research.

We’re all in agreement that untagged NSFW is not cool, and kids deserve kid-only sections of the internet. People who are triggered by or dislike problematic content deserve to be able to not see it. 👍

(I’ve seen the argument that blocking tags/people should not be required - sorry, PTSD still requires that you manage your triggers, up to and including swearing off platforms just as I have sworn off bars/soap brands/etc to avoid my triggers.)

I have found a lot of accessible and free articles and studies that I will link throughout so that we can discuss the fact-based reasoning, in an effort to have a civil conversation.

(Also because we are not flat earthers, we are Fandom, and if we’re going to be annoying little shitheels in an “Um Actually” contest, we’re going to have the sources to back it up.)

Minors and Explicit Material

I’m not supporting minors engaging with explicit material. I have such little interest in the subject that I’m not even going to bring in articles, but you can feel free to. I personally engaged with explicit material as a preteen of my own free will and did not find it to be harmful, and the majority of people throughout human history have been exposed to explicit material at an early age with varying degrees of harm. There are undeniable legal and harm-driven differences between a 12 year old girl looking at Hustler on her own, a 14 year old boy being sent nudes from a grown woman, and a 6 year old viewing PornHub. (And I think the guardians of that 6 year old should be charged with grooming just like the woman, tbh.)

Personal Disclaimer

I’m an adult survivor of CSA and incest. I’m a happily married adult. I don’t personally like lolicon/shotacon/kodocon. I don’t like kids. I don’t like teens. I’m personally not attracted to underage fictional characters. I have family, the idea of fucking any of them makes me want to throw up and die, so I don’t write or read RPF of my family.

I am really, really fucking intense about preventing sexual violence, supporting survivors, and fandom, which is where this all comes from.

I read and love problematic fiction - my favorites are ASOIAF, Lolita, and VC Andrews. The most “problematic” thing I’ve personally written are Lucifer/Michael fics from Supernatural back in 2012. They are “brothers” in CW Christ, not blood. They do not have any blood.

Gen Z and Online Grooming

In 2002, a survey of 1500 minors from 10-17 found that 4% had been solicited for sexual purposes by an adult online.

In 2023, that number increased to 20%.

While the linked 2023 Thorn report suggests that the vast majority of these inappropriate interactions happened on platforms that allow for interpersonal communication, which by and large minors were greatly discouraged from and had less access to in the early 2000’s, a trauma-informed approach does not allow for blame to fall on the children. The guardians of those children have monumentally failed to restrict and educate before giving children the means to access those platforms.

It is my uncited but personal opinion that the increased rate of grooming, as well as an increased interest in combating rape culture, has led to well-intentioned individuals to become digital vigilantes attacking those who they hold responsible for their traumatic experiences in a search for catharsis and justice denied for themselves as well as a desire to make the internet safer for other children, whom they are increasingly aware are entering online spaces unsupervised at distressingly young ages.

Is harassment and bullying bad for perpetrators of it?

Before we get into how ship-related hate campaigns do not affect predation or combat rape culture, we should acknowledge that it’s actually pretty harmful for the people who cyberbully. Not just in the legal/social consequences, but people who participate in cyberbullying and cyberhate campaigns have higher rates of depression, estrangement from their parents, self-effacing habits, social anxiety, lower empathy, and so forth.

One study suggests that the treatment and prohibitive for cyberbullying, which contributes to a culture of cyberhate and a lower likelihood to report or confront other incidents of harassment or toxicity online, can be combatted with media competency to increase empathy along with other important life skills.

Some Common Pro-Censorship Myths

“Pornography is Addictive/Consumption of Pornography Leads to Increasingly Hardcore Imagery And Ultimately Real-World Violence” - The American Psychological Association does not recognize Porn Addiction as real and the DSM-5 does not classify it as an addiction. Additionally, many methods used in articles claiming that porn is addictive or causes users to seek out more hardcore material were flawed or biased. There is actually some evidence that compulsive porn use, the closest you can get to a porn addiction diagnosis, is associated with shame and the user’s belief that pornography is morally wrong, which sex-negative attitudes encourage.

“Jaws caused shark culling” - That's unfortunately a simplification that ignores a LOT of surrounding context. WW2’s modern naval battles with an increase of ship sinkings and thus contact with sharks prompted the invention and use of shark repellant by aviators and sailors in the 1940’s. The most deadly and famous shark attack of all time was the USS Indianapolis sinking in 1945, which led to 12-150 deaths. The 1974 book Jaws by Peter Benchley, which was the entire basis of the movie, was inspired by One Fucking Dude who started shark hunting tours and overall seemed to have a really immaculate vibe. The interstate highways that finished in the 1950’s increased beach tourism in the 60’s and onwards, inspiring the American surf culture, further increasing the cultural desire to purge sharks for the new swath of beachgoers and their fondness for using surfboards which make them look like seals to sharks. Additionally, 1975’s Jaws inspired a huge desire for education about sharks, and the relationship between problematic media and education will be the core of this yapperoni pizza.

“The Slendermen Killings/Other Fiction Inspired Crimes” - The ACLU states that “There is no evidence that fiction has ever driven a sane person to violence.” Inspired crimes are indeed no less tragic, and thankfully rare, but people who suffer from inability to discern reality and fiction do not necessarily need fiction to commit violence. The “Son of Sam” murder spree was not inspired by a book or movie, but instead Berkowitz’ auditory hallucinations.

“Violent videogames DO cause violence” - After a great deal of funding and study, the American Psychological Association has concluded that teens and younger may have increased feelings of aggression and not necessarily physically violent outbursts as a direct effect, but older teens and young adults do not encounter statistically meaningful rates of aggression.

“Your brain can’t tell the difference between fiction and reality” - Factually incorrect. Children as young as 5 years old can tell the difference, and they can even be more suspicious about “facts” that come from sources they know also host fiction, such as TV shows.

“This stuff shouldn’t be online because it can be used to groom a child” - While I could not find specific statistics on how often pornography is used to desensitize child victims, nor how often that is specifically used in online grooming, and especially not how much of that pornography is made from fictional characters - out of a mixed group of convicted offenders with adult and child victims, 55% of offenders used pornography to manipulate their victim. I would never refute that explicit fanart or fanfic could be used to desensitize a child, but that is by far not the only tool (asking about sexual experiences/identity, making jokes, etc is extremely common grooming behavior), and there is no evidence to suggest that it is used to a statistically significant degree. In my own anecdotal experience, normal vanilla legal pornography is used with far greater prevalence, and there isn’t a similar movement to shame its production for that possibility. Nor should the creators of any material, pornographic or otherwise, share blame in the actions of a predator.

The Fiction Affects Reality Carrd

(No hate to the person who made it, in fact I give props to them for trying to find unbiased sources, I just want to point out that their interpretations of their articles are kinda flawed and one of their studies is a kind of a perfect example on small and culturally biased samples.)

Reading Fiction Impacts Aggressive Behavior - (I cannot access the full study but this article is the primary source used in the Carrd and it goes into detail) - A study showed that 67 university students were more annoyed with a loud buzzer after reading a short story about a physical fight between roommates compared to a story with nonviolent revenge. However, this study was conducted at Brigham Young University, the same campus where we got a whole video series of hot ethical takes like “I’d rather shoot a kitten than drink coffee,” so uh. Yeah. Kind of a prime example on why it’s important to have large and culturally varied sampling. (Another BYU study with 137 BYU students being odd about moral ambiguity in fiction, just because I’m starting to add Dr. Sarah M. Coyne to my list of “Sarah’s That I Dislike.”)

Your Brain on Fiction - a NYT article that describes Theory of the Mind and how fMRIs captured how readers’ minds would light up centers of muscle control when reading sentences like “Peter kicked.” The quote “The brain, it seems, does not make much of a distinction between reading about an experience and encountering it in real life; in each case, the same neurological regions are stimulated” is speaking of motor functions. Emotional centers of the brain were not included in the study.

How Fiction Changes Your World - a Boston Globe article that actually describes how people who read more fiction are more empathetic and tend to believe in a just world. It does not state that the empathy a reader feels for fictional characters extends to corrupting their moral compass. In fact, there’s such a thing as a “fictive license” to explore taboo themes more thoroughly because it is not real - 123 participants were interviewed after watching two actors play the part of detective and murderer being interviewed, and participants who were told it was fake had more varied and inquisitive responses.

The Social Impact of Books - Actually reuses the previous study about the just world, so point remains. Empathy is understanding, not mirroring.

Is Problematic Fiction Good for Survivors of Trauma?

It absolutely depends on the individual.

Writing expressively about traumatic experiences has been shown to be effective to reduce depression, or more effective in reducing dysphoria and anxiety than talking to fellow survivors, and Written Exposure Therapy is broadly prescribed to survivors of trauma, with one study centering on car crash survivors finding that WET resolved their PTSD symptoms and continued to be effective after a year.

In this study, which sadly is not available online but it is too important to leave out completely, survivors of CSA were given fictional novels about CSA and in closely reading and analyzing those stories, were able to understand their own experiences and were indeed drawn to write about their own experiences as well.

Engaging in problematic fiction, like all fiction, allows for consent as well as control. If at any point a survivor does not feel in control or wishes to stop, they can at that instant. They can even rewrite their narratives and take control of their story in fictionalizing and changing the account. They can even try to understand what their abuser felt through fiction, which is helpful considering that the vast majority of survivors had a relationship that had been positive and even loving with their abusers at times.

Is Problematic Fiction Good for Everyone Else?

It again depends on the individual.

Antis might be a little right that most people don't want to read problematic stories. In a study exploring whether fiction can corrode morals, 83% of study participants stated that they would prefer not to read a short story justifying baby murder if they had the choice, even if that exploration isn’t inherently harmful.

This very small sample study of 13 participants discussed how young women interpreted sexual themes in writing, including explicit fanfiction, and how that was beneficial and informative to explore sexual desire and examine healthy and unhealthy relationships in a safe and controlled environment.

This meta-analysis further discusses how problematic and sexual themes in YA literature are useful to illustrate what sexual violence looks like, and begin educational conversations through those depictions to break down harmful myths such as “if she didn’t scream, she wanted it.”

Empowered by the “Fictive License” previously cited, problematic fiction can be beneficial for anyone who desires and is capable of consuming and analyzing it.

This study analyzing abusive aspects of three films - Beauty and the Beast, Twilight, and 50 Shades of Gray - concluded that these abusive themes should be discussed to increase recognition and awareness, not censored based on those problematic themes.

This study of 53 women were asked to read different versions of fictional intimate partner violence flags, or “toxic behavior” like surveillance, control, etc. In every version of the story, whether the female or male had those behaviors either courting or committed, the women recognized the behavior as wrong.

Another study that reading allows for the moral laboratory to explore morality in fiction without decisive impact to corroding moral permissibility.

Is There Ever Any Point Where Fictional Interests Definitively Speak On Someone’s Morality?

In short - not really. Loving Jason Vorhees does not put you at risk of murdering campers as long as you know he’s not real. Writing Wincest does not mean you look forward to family reunions, as long as you know incest isn’t okay in the real world. The real world, where real people are harmed, is where you find the measure of someone’s character.

This Psychology Today article is the best source I could find for quotes from a fantastic book ‘Who's Been Sleeping in Your Head? The Secret World of Sexual Fantasies’ by Brett Kahr regarding taboo sexual fantasies and how they are not only common, but not inherently harmful.

There are people who enjoy problematic media in an entirely nonsexual sense, of course. I myself don’t get off on problematic media - I think it’s just interesting to explore different experiences, and I think that can be revolutionary.

Additionally, fantasies in general have almost always been in the vein of “things you don’t want to really happen in reality.” In a study of 351 asexuals, more than half reported that they fantasize about having sex, but that doesn’t mean that they actually want to. You can fantasize about dating Billie Eilish - it doesn’t mean that you’d be happy dealing with celebrity culture.

(I personally fantasize about the internet being just for adults, but in practice I think that would be incredibly harmful and isolating for at-risk youth and LGBTQ teens) Fantasies always pluck out only the bits of reality that you want to engage with.

If You Get Off On Fictional Kids, You’re Attracted to Something About Them Being Kids

Not inherently, surprisingly. Wearing a schoolgirl uniform is a pretty common roleplay, and it’s not meant to “fool” the participants into thinking they’re indulging in pedophilia. There’s a wealth of emotional and sexual nuance in that specific kink - innocence and virginity play, tilted power dynamics in ‘scolding’ the uniform wearer for dress code violations, even the concept of a sexually provocative “teenager” can be played with without shame, because the world of fetish and fantasy is separated from condonable actions for the vast, vast majority of adults. (The only study I could find on this is this small study of 100 white guys found on Facebook, which itself states it is not definitive, found that while there might be correlation between attraction to children and interest in schoolgirl uniforms, there is no proof of causation. AKA, the rectangular pedophile might indeed like square schoolgirl uniforms, but not everyone - in fact, the majority at nearly 60% in this very survey - that likes square schoolgirl uniforms is a rectangular pedophile.)

Even sexual age play between adults is not indicative of pedophilia because it exists in a setting between two adults who fully understand that the mechanics are completely fake, allowing the power dynamics that would be abusive between an adult and child to be ethically explored.

I don’t have an official-looking study to cite, but I have asked people who like content about underage fictional characters why they do so. Overwhelmingly, a lot of the ones who like underage age gaps like the fantasy of an older and more experienced character taking a younger one under their wing, to have the opportunity to commit violent and blatantly objectifying harm and yet try to create what inevitably does not truly pass as consent, but seems near enough to the characters. Some think that the characters themselves have an interesting chemistry. Some read underage fic and still imagine the characters as adults. Some like to explore the feelings of shame that the older character must feel and how they mentally compartmentalize to go forward with the relationship, and how the younger character found themself in that vulnerable position - which is exploring a harmful situation through fiction to understand how it could play out in real life.

People who like fictional incest like exploring the shameful components of that taboo relationship - and I have seen a lot of works that compare how bad incest could be to other harms, like the Gravecest route in a game with parental cannibalism. And then there are folks who like analyzing the codependency of having one person fulfill every social need - family, friend, lover, AKA Wincest.

What makes a predator if it’s not just sexual attraction?

90% of CSA survivors know their abuser, discrediting the still-entirely-too-popular Stranger Danger myth. And shockingly, only 50% of abusers are pedophiles.

That means 50% of child molesters do not have sexual interest in children because they are children, but they victimized children because they are more accessible in lieu of adult partners, with increased rates of incest.

While I could not find a specific study on the relation between dehumanization/objectification of child victims and child molesters (and if you find one, please send it to me!), this study speaks on dehumanization as a precursor to adult sexual violence.

This study, conducted on convicted child molesters in prison, showed that child molesters tend to fantasize about children while in a negative mood, further contributing to the theory that child victims are dehumanized prior to abuse.

This very small sample study found that in a mixed sample of internet only/contact crime/mixed offenders, offenders who had contact with children had lower rates of fantasizing about children.

In short, half the time a child predator is someone who wants to offend against a child regardless of attraction to the fact they are a child.

Resources To Recognize Grooming/Abuse Victims/Predators

I would absolutely be remiss to not share my collection of resources to help detect signs of abuse/grooming as well as warning signs of a predator who may be targeting elders/women/teens/children:

Darkness 2 Light is a fantastic resource overall, this page details stages and signs of grooming.

RAINN personally helped me through my PTSD journey, and this article detailing the signs of sexual trauma in teenagers is thorough and non-judgemental

Signs of abuse as well as warning signs of predation that does not use gendered language nor play into the Stranger Danger myth.

Education, not Censorship

I think a lot of the energy against taboo content among young people still has a lot to do with the desire to end rape culture. The tools that we Millennial Tumblrinas gave you Gen Z kids were snatches of leftist theory, deplatforming, and voting with your dollar, so it’s reasonable to think that removing taboo content like pedophilia, incest, rape fights rape culture.

It doesn’t.

Rape culture is fought by education. Comprehensive sex education, education about consent. Talking about what consent looks like, what sex can look like, what rape can look like.

There should be more taboo content to talk about these things, to show all the shades it can look like. From a violent noncon to fics that aren’t even tagged as dubcon yet still are in shades that are hard to suss out, we should talk about it.

A Non-Empirical Example Of Good Media Analysis and Education to Combat Rape Culture

Let’s use the example of Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen’s relationship in House of the Dragon. Canonically, in both the book and the show, they have a romantic relationship that appears for the most part to be positive (the show being more contentious but I dedicated an aside to Sarah Hess and our beef at the bottom of my Carrd, but feel free to ask how I feel about writing producers with any variation of the name ‘Sarah’) despite an age gap, a sexual relationship that began while Rhaenyra was a minor, and incest - the problematic hat trick if you will.

I have seen anti-Daemyra shippers condemn Daemyra shippers for “Condoning grooming, age gaps, pedophilia, and incest.” Which is not just a broad, inaccurate, and harmful statement, it’s not at all constructive or educational analysis.

It would actually be beneficial to say “Daemon is grooming Rhaenyra as a teenager with gifts, devoted attention that takes advantage of her isolation and vulnerability, frequent nonsexual touches, the extreme desensitization to sexuality in the brothel visit,” etc etc. And even so, it is not useful to say that people cannot still ship the relationship and acknowledge those aspects. They might want to further explore the issues of consent in their dynamic in fiction, they may want to strip away some of them with narrative reimagining. Some might want to ignore the taboos completely and indulge in the fantasy entirely, and some might find the actors hot as hell - AKA, anyone who watches the show.

It’s honestly a little similar to me in how Jerry Falwell would tell his followers not to watch or read or take in any media that dealt with homosexuality unless it was condemning it - even Will & Grace was on Jerry’s shitlist. And so, Jerry’s followers missed out on a lot of media that could have educated them about queerness, could have humanized queer people for them - and that did not make queers go away. Just like ignoring or shutting out media about incest, rape, and other forms of sexual violence doesn’t make those things go away - it just tends to make you less informed, and little less capable of empathy towards people affected by those subjects.

So let’s stop shaming those that ship a complicated dynamic - you get less fanworks exploring those taboos, and less of a discussion overall. You shut down the morality lab of fiction, and to be honest, it’s wet sock behavior.

Some FanFiction Specific Studies

How dubcon fanfiction can flesh out the intricacies and messiness of realistic consent

A review of darkfic written about Harry Potter in 2005 (which, I will personally attest has never been outdone in how profoundly taboo those works were)

Interviews with 11 Self Insert writers who wrote on themes of rape, abuse, control, yandere, etc, and how that was beneficial to some who had experienced sexual violence themselves

Conclusion:

H…holy shit, you actually read all of that?? Congrats dude! That is a lot of time and brain power to dedicate to any one thing!

By the way, I am not really gifted at writing articles or any of that junk, and I tried to make my hyperlexic ass a little more accessible instead of bringing out all the $5 words. I am literally just an autistic who took a couple technical writing classes over a decade ago and really wanted to sort out my thoughts and try to have a platform for discussion. Also, I am really fucking bad at math. I failed two different college level statistics classes twice each. Gun to my head, I could not tell you what a standard deviation is, which is why I worked entirely with the percentages.

And I do want to have a discussion! I would in fact like to not report anyone for sending me gore or death threats or any of that stuff! I don’t think everyone will agree with me, in fact I’m certain that you could find studies that contradict some of mine, and I’d love to discuss them!

I’m sure it will still be tempting to throw around accusations of pedophilia because sometimes, confronting your previously held beliefs is incredibly uncomfortable. If you could not do that, that would be great? I don’t like being compared to someone who profoundly abused me just because I have a different opinion on how to combat rape culture and empower survivors. If you can do that, I’ll do my absolute best to be cheerful and welcoming and respectful as well. 😁

PS - I’m also not really going to be phased if you call me weird or cringe - I am. Always have been. Cringe, weirdness, and autism have made me do and capable of doing some fantastically neat and impressive stuff. But if you try to say something like “proshippers are too yucky and weird to be in fandom” - I’m going to have to refer you to your similarity to Kate Sanders of Lizzy McGuire fame, you “prEpz >:(“ - [My Immortal, legendary author unknown]

#disc horse #fandom discourse #fandom problems #fandom culture #proshipping #anti censorship #anti anti

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meanbossart · 9 days ago

Note

Kind of piggybacking off of the anon who asked about DU Drow's "birth" and your answer to that: A kind of fun and terrible thing about the majority of Forgotten Realms gods is that they're essentially physically incapable of acting on or understanding anything outside of their representative portfolios. So like. For example: Bhaal, who's portfolio of Murder also generally includes -cruelty- and -suffering-, is going to be motivated permanently towards creating those things in everything he does, even against himself directly. Nobody is exempt, even the gods, and it causes a lot of conflict between them. Ao (FR's "God of God's") designed them that way to achieve what he perceives as a sense of balance. So like...there's no "reasoning" with them ever. It's not stubbornness or willful disagreement. They literally CAN'T see outside of the traits they represent. Actually, I lied: There are a FEW of them who can. A small handful of current canon gods were allowed to keep their "mortal perspective" (which ALSO causes a lot of problems!) and so can see outside of the boundaries of their portfolios and reason or loophole around that. Mystra for example is one of those, but not the one we see in BG3. Larian retconned her to a different earlier version of her because the current one is a totally different person who wouldn't have facilitated Gale's plotline. But I'm derailing myself! :I Anyway, all that to say that I absolutely LOVE the way you handle Drow's birth. We can all write whatever we want forever, it's just fiction, but it does tickle my brain in all the right places when I see an artist really embracing all the ugly, gross, foolish, and unflattering elements of the canon gods. Especially Bhaal, since he is in fact such a blindly cruel disastrous moron actually, and not some dark brooding sexy criminal mastermind. Thank you for embracing the nastiness and gifting us with DU Drow in this world, and I'm so glad he survived the conditions of his birth! XD

(This is in reference to this ask!)

YEAH, I really like the very much fallible aspect of the gods in DnD! Whether one would like to ascribe it to stubbornness or a much more cut and dry absence of perspective, I very much enjoy that pretty much all of them (regardless of alignment) have these glaring logical pitfalls. I go back and forth between interpreting it as a reflection of human failure or, again, as an obvious consequence of the narrow roles they're obligated to play, but either way it leaves you with a really fun space to play in.

It's clearly inspired by greek/roman mythos where the cosmos may as well have been a really raunchy and unbelievably violent soap-opera - and as one of many kids who was obsessed with those legends, it really tickles my brain to have that incorporated here.

Also, don't get me wrong, I love to moan and complain about how Shar makes absolutely no sense to me - but that's the thing, every single day we are exposed to people who've bought into the most inscrutable of beliefs, so I wouldn't want every god in the realms' actions to make sense or for their dogma to be an "easy sell" - that's not how people or faith works, after all!

#ask

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iwantmyprizepet · 18 days ago

Text

𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽 ℐ𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 11/?

Summary: The kiss that got derailed. Idk I’m so nervous y’all are gonna hate this chapter I can’t think of what the hell to put here.

TW: Accident, Injury, Hospital. (No death in this fic promise.)

18+

Word Count: 10.6k

AO3 Previous Part Next Part

Expand to read the very long authors note please. 😭

A/N: I’m going to preface this with two things you all really need to know. Number one and the most important is that this was NEVER meant to be for public consumption. This was fully supposed to rot on my computer. Number two is that I was raised on watching days of our lives and other soap operas with my nana everyday so…drama and angst is just ingrained in me. I’ve been so nervous to post this chapter in fear anyone may lose interest because I KNOW it’s dragging out but…shit idk. I hope you lovely people all stick around. I promise all of the love is coming. It’s there. It’s on the way. This last part has easily been the most comments I’ve ever received and they’re all so kind and special. I feel so grateful that you all spend your time and words on this little fic. I genuinely appreciate all of you. So please PLEASE…don’t lose interest. I swear I’m not dragging it out like this to torture anyone. All of this has been written out for some time. I promise promise promise you get a kiss next chapter. - Your very nervous author, Mich.

My Royal Taglist: @morgananyx @6stolenangel9 @ahintofchaos @coffeemelko @xblinkx2

///

I woke up early, excited and mood bright. After getting dressed I packed up everything I had in my room and brought it downstairs.

Every five minutes visions of kissing Agatha infiltrated my thoughts. It gave me shivers and a racing heart every time.

My parents were still asleep so I fixed us breakfast sandwiches. I needed to keep moving to expel the nerves.

A pot of coffee sat warming when I heard them start to stir.

I poured my parents their cups fixing it how they liked. My mom appeared first and placed a morning kiss on the top of my head. Dad followed a few minutes later.

I took a bite of my sandwich, mom doing the same. “Coffee and sandwich on the counter, dad.” I said as I walked to sit on a stool at the island.

He grumbled out an unintelligible sound. Mom fixed him a glare, mouthful of food as she chewed.

“You married a caveman, mom.” I joked before a bite.

She scoffed with an eye roll and took a sip of coffee. “Don’t I know it.”

He turned to us. “I thought you liked that about me?” He laughed wagging his eyebrows as my face morphed into disgust.

“Oh, dad come on I’m eating here!” I added in a fake gagging noise as my mom warned him with a glare.

Laughing he picked up his coffee and sandwich. “I gotta call Charlie quick about that damn staircase on the new build.” With that he turned and disappeared into his office.

Mom and I finished our breakfast over a light chat as I tried to exorcise my dad’s comment out of my head.

It was just after noon when I was getting ready to leave. I’d packed up my car and started it to melt the ice. Dad and I had to shovel the driveway. I was sore and ready for a hot shower before seeing Agatha. Luckily the entire strip went in on plowing out the driveways and street whenever it snowed, so I didn’t have to worry about doing it at home.

My phone rang as I was saying my goodbyes to mom and dad.

Brooks.

My eyebrows pinched in as I hit accept.

“Hey, bud what’s up?” I asked trying to knock the concern his call placed.

“It’s Chloe.” It’s all he got out before he choked on a cry.

My heart started racing. “What’s wrong?

“I’m at the hospital. We got in an accident.” Brooks was fully crying now.

My free hand grabbed my aching chest. “Is she okay?” My eyes were welling and a panic was settling in me.

“I don’t know.” He was sobbing. “It all happened so fast. I woke up and the ambulance came and they had her on a stretcher. They say she has internal bleeding.” My heart was dropping to my gut with every word. “What hospital?”

My parents were concerned watching on, but now they both held a look of growing worry. There was really only one person it could be about and they knew it. “Uhm, the one off the exit where the old mills are. I forgot the name.”

“I’ll be there in a flash.” My parents started to get ready no questions. “Where are her parents?”

“They’re on a fucking flight. I can’t get through. I’m sure they’ve already boarded and it’s a twelve hour flight.”

“Okay.” I tried to still my shaking voice. “On the way, hang tight.”

I hung up and quickly explained to my parents. I was losing it with every word. In a flash I was in the backseat of my car, my parents in the front.

The drive there passed in a blur, but also felt like a lifetime. When we made it and found Brooks, the both of us instantly collided in a hug. Sobs were wracking out of him into my shoulder.

After a few minutes Brooks finally found some even breaths. I managed to keep a semblance of composure for him. I was destroyed on the inside.

I’d always had a hard time showing my emotions in front of anyone. That is until Chloe. I’d put up so many walls over the years. I found myself able to let people close, but never fully in.

When Chloe walked up to the counter to apply at the cafe, she bounced in like a puppy. It was perfect timing and impossible to say no to her.

She made her way intricately into my life like a storm. We loved each other like sisters. The idea of anything happening to her made me sick.

Brooks explained she had went into emergency surgery just before we got there. Her spleen ruptured upon impact and was bleeding. He said she also had a couple of breaks somewhere, but the spleen was most important.

I felt like cracking porcelain keeping it in.

My parents showed their support, mostly silent. What really could you say? They loved Chloe like family too.

The only blood family Chloe had close enough had just left on a plane. Her poor parents wouldn’t even know until hours from now.

Her sister, Sarah, was on the other side of the country. Brooks said she was trying to find a flight out, but she was a single mom. It wasn’t easy for her to just drop and find a flight for her and her daughter. She had just moved out to Arizona for a job opportunity not long ago.

It all just felt so unfair.

The waiting room settled as we waited for her to get out of surgery. My parents sat in a corner together holding hands silently. Brooks sat perched on the edge of a seat near the window, leg jostling up and down. I was pacing with my hands behind my back. Moving was the only thing keeping me together.

Agatha crossed my mind and my throat clenched holding a cry in. All I could think is how I could let it out in front of her. How quickly she also weaved in past my walls in such a different way.

I glanced at the clock, the time making me double take.

Agatha. Of fucking course.

I needed to call Agatha. I needed to cancel. I needed her.

She had texted me a couple of times, but I hadn’t looked at them.

“I need a drink.” I cleared my throat. “Can I get you something?” I asked Brooks gently.

He shook his head and shot me a teary half smile. I nodded to my parents asking them silently.

My dad asked for a coffee, mom water and I turned on my heel leaving the room.

Weaving through the busy hospital, I made my way outside. There was a sitting area to the right out front. I tucked into the farthest corner and called Agatha with shaking clammy hands.

“Hello, darling. Still on for later?” Her voice punched in the straw I had holding myself together.

A sob erupted from me as I faced the brick corner of the hospital.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice took on a serious drop.

After a few seconds I choked out words. “Chloe. We’re at the hospital.” I took a shuddering breath in trying to stifle another cry. “She’s in emergency surgery.”

She gasped halfway through my sentence. “Oh, my sweet girl.” Her breath held a hitch to it. “What happened?” “I don’t know.” It came out on a cry. “Her and Brooks were driving home and they got in an accident. I haven’t even asked what happened. He’s a fucking wreck.”

I placed my free hand on the brick building, ears burning.

“Honey, I’m so sorry.” She paused her strained voice. “What do you need? Anything, just say the word.”

I wanted to say all I needed was her but I didn’t. I knew it would break me saying it out loud. I knew she couldn’t come here and be with me. With my parents here, of course she couldn’t come. The realization made the tears come harder.

It took several seconds, but I finally settled myself enough to respond. She waited patiently.

“That’s okay. I don’t think I need anything.” Liar. “I just wanted to let you know for tonight.” For whatever reason that sentence strangled a sob out of me again.

“Darling, what hospital is it? I can be there in a flash.” It sounded like she was fighting back tears which made it worse.

“You can’t.” It came out in a defeated whine. “When I got the call, I was still with my parents. They drove me.”

Silence filled her line and I felt my torso fill with an even greater ache neck down.

What we had, hadn’t even really started. Hadn’t even really been said out loud. I couldn’t handle my parents finding out, especially like this. I wouldn’t be able to control the pull to her when I was like this. It would be so obvious what was growing between us.

“Right.” It came out short and sharp from her. “Agatha.” I pleaded out desperate for her to understand all the words that wouldn’t come out.

“I understand.” Short again. “If you do need anything.” She paused. “Well, I can send anything over.” I didn’t know what to say. I needed her to know how badly I needed her. It just wouldn’t come out.

“I have to go.” My free arm wrapped around my waist as if to self soothe. “I have to check on Brooks.”

“Of course.” A sniffle sounded from her and I squeezed my ribs trying to distract from the pain swirling inside. “Anything you need. Anything at all. Anytime of day. Anything.”

It still felt wrong. It was so kind, but felt wrong. My chin was wobbling forcing down a plead for her. All I wanted was her. I wanted Chloe to be okay and to have Agatha by my side.

After finally swallowing the lump in my throat I replied. “Sorry, I’m just.” I had to pause for another swallow. “I have to go. I’ll text you.”

I wanted to yell of course I need you, but I didn’t. It was all too much.

“I’ll be here. Keep me updated.” “I will.” I hung up quickly right after to try and hide the cry I released.

I walked back in after collecting myself. There were people staring with a pity. Likely assuming they were watching someone dealing with devastating news. Crying in a hospital was never anything good. I floated the hallways of the hospital, eyes down avoiding everyone. It was loud and busy only worsening everything. There was still no update when I got back. I sipped my coffee and paced. My head was a simple mix. Thoughts of Agatha and guilt worrying about that as Chloe was in surgery. That was all I should be focused on.

It felt like an eternity waiting in this damn room. When a doctor finally came in, she informed us the surgery went well and she was stable.

I’d never felt more relief. She told us she wasn’t completely out of the woods yet, but stable and we could see her.

My parents stayed back in the waiting room as Brooks and I walked to the room they had placed her in. He rushed in and I hesitated at the door.

My hand hovered at the pocket my phone was in. I felt like it would be easier, even just hearing Agatha breathing over the line. Just knowing she was with me in the moment.

I shook my head and pushed into the room.

She looked so small in the bed. A big cast was on her left arm. There was wires all around. Her face was a little bruised and pale. Brooks held her right hand between the both of his like a lifeline.

The cry rushed out of me like a wave crashing. I held my wrist to my mouth trying to stifle it all. Brooks dropped his head to her arm, his own body shaking with tears.

I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. I stood near the window and watched as a hollow feeling made it’s way in.

I couldn’t help but put myself in Brooks shoes. If it was Agatha in that bed. Not that it was the same. A pang of selfish guilt hit me again at my thoughts.

We sat and we cried as the sun started to set.

“I wasn’t driving.” Brooks broke a long silence.

He turned to me and I nodded. My throat felt dry forcing me to clear it before speaking. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His eyes closed as he breathed in and out. Chloe’s hand was still pressed between his.

“She was mad.” He turned back to her. “Not at me. That loser uncle of hers, you know the one, misogynistic idiot. He made some comments to her the night before. She held it in for the most part until we were driving home, to keep the peace.” He paused and laughed. “We were laughing actually, when it happened. You can really only laugh at people like that, right?” He shook his head sniffling now. “She closed her eyes laughing for a literal second. I was looking and didn’t even see the black ice. The car got a little squirrelly and her front tire grabbed a huge chunk of snow. It sucked the car right in. It was like a flash and we were out of control going off the road into the woods. There was nothing she could have done. Next thing I knew I saw Chloe on a stretcher as I was pulled out. Her side is what hit. The passenger side looked untouched.”

He held his lips to her hand, brushing them against her skin every other sentence.

“She’s going to be okay.” I said it like it was a matter of fact, with a conviction because it had to be. Finally, I walked over and gently placed a hand on her forehead. Leaning over, I moved next to her ear. “You’re going to be okay, Chlo.” I turned and walked back to the window.

A quiet fell on the room again. My parents made their way in shortly after Brooks told me about the accident. The clock ticked and the sun was almost fully hidden behind the horizon now.

Nurses flitted in here and there checking on Chloe. It seemed as long as she woke up and there were no more signs of the bleeding starting again, she was going to be okay. A long road to recovery, but okay.

A nurse informed us that only one of us could stay and visiting hours were nearing an end in less than two.

I walked to my car to grab the blanket I kept in it for Brooks to have. I dug out the new pair of plain black Nike sweatpants my parents had gotten me. He usually wore a size larger than me for his height, but I knew they’d fit him apart from his ankles poking out a bit. I also fished out a pair of new socks for him and a hoodie I had in my trunk. Again, maybe would be short, but it would do until morning. After all, he was also in a car accident. I’m sure fresh clothes would help him relax a little.

The nurse let us stay a little past visiting hours. I left with a long hug exchanged between us. I promised I’d be back as soon as visiting hours opened back up and bring him some of his own clothes from their house that actually fit him properly.

One last look to Chloe sent a pang in me as we left.

It all felt surreal driving home. I was selfishly thinking how I couldn’t kiss Agatha now. That started the tears. How horrible of a thought to be upset about that.

Tears clouded my vision the whole way back to my parents. They tried to get me to stay when we pulled in the driveway. It was a near fight trying to get my keys from my mom.

I knew they were just worried about me, but it didn’t make it any less irritating. I finally got the keys with a promise to text as soon as I got home.

It was forceful turning for the route to my house and not Agatha’s. I’d only drove there once, but the route was already memorized.

Thinking about her brought the tears on again. I white knuckled the steering wheel the whole way home.

When I pulled into my driveway and shut off the car a long breath pushed out of me. I closed my eyes sinking in the silence for a moment.

I sent a text to my mom before pushing out and walking up the stairs.

As soon as I walked in the door it felt like every bit of this awful day fell onto me. I shakily pulled my phone out and hovered over Agatha’s name. It was nearing ten pm. It was probably too late. I was so terrified she wouldn’t answer. That she would be cross with me.

I pressed call anyways and pushed the phone to my ear bracing for whatever.

She answered instantly. “Hello, darling.”

“I’m home.” The tears already started. “I need you.”

“On my way.” She said it like she’d been waiting for it. Like it was obvious she’d come.

“Agatha?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I don’t want to be alone.” I had to work up the courage for a second. “Can you stay the night, please?”

“That was already my plan.”

I sighed, shoulders relaxing. “I’m gonna shower quick. I’ll leave the door unlocked if you get here before I’m out.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a few.”

I hung up and plugged my phone in. I grabbed sweatpants and a t shirt for bed. Everything felt robotic. My stomach was growling now. I felt so out of it.

The warm water and the knowledge that Agatha didn’t seem mad eased me a bit.

I was halfway through my shower when I heard the door. I rushed drying myself and changing after getting out. After a few deep breaths I opened the door.

She looked perfect. Sweatpants and that damn hoodie she borrowed of mine, perfect around her. Her face was bare of any makeup, hair soft and swept by the wind. We both stared for a second.

In sync we lurched for each other. I broke down in to her shoulder instantly. She held me tight, kissing my head and shushing me softly. Her now familiar scent was like a wave of calm washing over me.

I don’t know how long we stood like that. Every bit of pent up emotion from the day bounced out of me.

My tears eventually stopped. Her hand rubbing my back soothing me. I felt weak, my entire weight was leaning into her and she held it so strong.

“I brought food if you’re hungry.” She whispered into my ear. “Have you ate anything?”

I shook my head into her shoulder. After breakfast I hadn’t ingested a thing besides coffee. My temples were pulsing with a headache. My muscles were sore from shoveling snow this morning and standing all day.

She squeezed me tighter, her hand scrunching my shirt in her fist. “Come on, you should eat something before bed.”

I nodded. “Just give me a minute.” I pulled back and turned away heading back for the bathroom.

After blowing my nose, I slapped cold water on my face a few times. I could hear Agatha in the kitchen warming something up with the microwave.

I looked an absolute mess. Avoiding the mirror, I put lotion on my face and went back out.

Agatha had her back to me at the counter plating something. I walked over to her and wrapped my arms around her waist, pressing my cheek into the back of her shoulder. She leaned back into me. Whatever she had warmed did smell good.

I wished this moment felt better. The excitement of her in my house, staying the night was clouded by the events. It made me sad and made me feel selfish again.

Her hands rubbed against my arms. “Let’s go sit so you can eat.” I nodded into her but held on, not wanting to let go. I needed this all day.

A moment passed. “Want me to feed you over my shoulder?” It was a welcome, playful question.

I smiled and laughed lightly, she sighed at it. Reluctantly, I pulled away and sat at the table. She followed and sat a plate in front of me with a glass of water.

“I had my chef make it earlier. I figured something not too hard to digest, in case you needed food at some point today.” She paused sitting next to me. “Just chicken and rice. Something easy. I hope it’s okay.” I sucked the tears in wanting to come out. I looked to her, chest swelling as I did. “It’s perfect, Agatha. Thank you.” I dug into the food, my hunger taking over. She watched me and after a moment placed her hand over the forearm I had resting on the table.

I finished my plate off with some water and leaned back looking down.

“There’s more, I wasn’t sure how much you’d want.” Her nails scratched lightly down my arm as she spoke.

It sent a distracting shiver through me as I shook my head. “That was fine. Thank you.”

Her hand halted it’s movement on my arm and moved to my chin, pulling me gently to look at her. Her thumb rubbed back and forth on my jaw, the other side her pointer finger lay firm. I could feel tears threatening and building up again.

Her forehead was lined with her own worry, but a smile peaked through. She was just starting to will a small smile out of me when my phone rang.

Instantly, I shot up and stepped over to where my phone lay. Worried that it would be Brooks with bad news. Maybe good news.

Mom.

“Hey mom.” I let out on a sigh.

“Hi, sweetie. I’m just checking in on you.” That persistent worry was mixed into her words.

I shrugged my shoulders trying to ease out the soreness. “Mom, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

“I’ll always worry. It’s my job.” A slight tinge of amusement lay in her words.

I sighed placing my hand on my hip. “I think I’m just gonna get some rest, mom.” I felt bad brushing her off.

“Okay, honey.” She paused and I could practically hear her thinking. “If you need me to come over I can spend the night with you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

I almost laughed looking to Agatha out of the corner of my eye. She was up now and washing the plate I had used.

“No, I’m good. I’m gonna go lay down mom.” I stretched and pushed into my lower back trying to work out a tinge I picked up from the day.

Agatha had snuck up behind me and placed her hands on my hips. I almost gasped at the contact.

“Are you sure?” I could tell by her voice she was still worried.

I sighed wrapping my hand around Agatha’s wrist giving it a squeeze. “I’m positive. I’m gonna check in on Brooks one more time and go to bed. I’m beat.”

“I know.” She huffed out. “Call me in the morning, okay?”

I nodded. “I will. Night mom.”

“Goodnight, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I love you.”

“Love you too, mom.” I hung up before she could plead to come over again.

As soon as the hand holding my phone dropped, Agatha moved her hands to my lower back working at the muscles. “Your back bothering you, darling?” She asked softly hitting a particularly sore spot.

I sucked a sharp breath in, keening back into her as her thumb worked the muscle bothering me. After a moment, the muscle released a bit and I groaned relaxing back into her. Her hands slowly weaved around to my stomach pulling me tight.

My head started racing with all the events of the past couple days. All the conversations we had. The pictures and the feelings. I let my weight fall further into her and moved my hands over her arms.

We stood there a moment before Agatha spoke up again. “Let’s go to bed.” She said it right at my ear and my stomach lurched around the weight of it.

Agatha used the bathroom and I followed right after. When I emerged all that was on was the soft light of my bedside lamp and the vent light above the oven. She’d flicked off all of the other lights like it was all familiar to her.

Agatha lay tucked into my bed and I had to pause and stare. She chose the right side. I always slept on the left. I’m sure she observed the used bedside table compared to the bare one. The one that now wasn’t as it held her phone.

She was smiling softly when my stare landed on her face. My head dropped trying to hide my smile. I walked towards the bed stopping at my side. Brooks and I exchanged a few texts. No changes good or bad since I’d left. I set my alarm for the morning and placed my phone on my own table.

Nervously, I crawled under the covers. My whole body was holding an awareness of her. I turned the side lamp off and slid down. She did the same, a tense silence enveloping us.

Whatever hesitation I had snapped and I turned draping myself over her. She moved with me, arm grabbing and tucking me into her.

She let out a long sigh after a deep breath in beneath me after we had settled. My head rose and fell against her chest with the breath. I clung tighter gripping her shirt in my hand. I squeezed my eyes shut rubbing my face against the top of her chest.

I almost leaned up and kissed her. I couldn’t. If there was even a hint of hesitation from her or unwillingness I wouldn’t be able to handle it right now. I knew there was a good chance that she wouldn’t hold back if I did, but that slight one percent was enough to strike a hint of fear. The idea that this awful day would cloud our first kiss was also a factor.

Her right arm lay across my shoulders firmly holding me against her. Her left hand rest further down my back rubbing gently.

“Agatha.” I paused flattening my palm against her ribs. “I needed you today. I wanted you there so much. It’s just.” I trailed off running my hand up and down her side. “Complicated, but I don’t want you to think I didn’t need you today.” It had been wearing on me all day that I might of hurt her feelings on the phone earlier. Not letting her come to the hospital. I sniffled as a few tears tried to escape. “I actually needed you so bad today.”

I dug my face into her neck, hand gripping her shirt again.

The arm around my shoulders squeezed tighter. “Honey, I’m aware. I fully understand. Thank you though. For telling me that.” She then placed a long lingering kiss to the top of my forehead. I scrunched up into her tighter.

The weight of the day clung heavy drifting me off easily in her arms.

I woke to being shifted and my alarm blaring. I adjusted to being awake and realized Agatha was holding me up and reaching for my phone. She shut off the alarm and I fell back into her heavily as she eased back down.

I groaned and buried my face in her. God, did she always have to smell so good?

“Sorry.” I mumbled into her shoulder. “How long was it going?”

Her left hand tangled into my hair gently running her fingers along my scalp. I groaned again wrapping my arms around her snugly.

“It just went off. I woke up a few minutes before.”

The sound of her voice rough with sleep, in my bed sent a shiver down my spine. I looked up to her then through my eyelashes. She looked absolutely perfect. Her hair slightly mussed, but perfect. Her eyelids rest heavy with sleep still and a smile tugged at the right corner of her mouth.

“Mornin.” I croaked out turning my head to rest on her shoulder still holding her eyes.

“Good morning, darling.”

I set my alarm for five am. Plenty of time to get ready and back to the hospital for six thirty. Well, plenty of time as long as I didn’t fall back asleep. Agatha was making that very difficult still chording her fingers through my hair.

I caught myself drifting off again, scalp and spine tingling. I hid my smile in her shoulder and squeezed her side.

“You have to stop.” I mumbled into her shirt. “You’re gonna make me fall back asleep.”

I felt her laugh ripple through her torso. She moved her fingers down to the nape of my neck, nails delicately dancing there. My breath came out in a stutter at the feel of it.

My phone disrupted the warm moment. I instantly shot my head up grabbing it off of the blanket over her stomach.

Brooks.

I fumbled accepting the call. “Hey, bud. How’s she doing?” I tried masking the instinctual worry.

Agatha followed me and draped her front over my back. Her arms wrapped around my waist.

“Good, still hasn’t woke up but she’s moving more.” He sounded so tired.

I leaned back into Agatha, relaxing at his words.

“That’s good.” I let out a sigh. “Did you get through to her parents?”

“Yeah, they’re still trying to get on a flight back. Sarah’s catching a flight this afternoon.” A yawn followed his words.

“Good, I’ll be there soon alright? What do you want for breakfast?”

“Surprise me.” He said on a light laugh.

I nodded, free hand running along Agatha’s arms crossed over my waist. “Will do. Nine eight three six for the garage key pad right?” “That’s it.” It was so odd hearing him anything but happy and energetic.

“I’ll be there in a bit.” I assured him.

“Alright, see you soon.”

“Yep, I’ll text when I’m leaving your place.”

It was five fifteen when I hung up. I knew I had to get up, but pushed Agatha and I back into the mattress anyways. Time was passing quickly as we lay there. I still had to get ready, had things to do and stuff to grab before I headed back. The dread of being in a hospital again all day was dancing around my chest. Agatha’s fingers gently dragging across it were nearly easing it.

“You’re gonna have to force me up.” I croaked out with closed eyes.

A low and gentle laugh sounded from her as she pushed us both up. “Go on.” Her arms dropped from around me. “Go get ready, darling.”

I let out a dramatic groan and flopped to the side, rolling out of bed. Agatha laughed again falling back into the bed. It really wasn’t fair.

I forced myself to my closet, trying to stretch out my sore body as I did to gather an outfit. I could feel her eyes on me the whole time. I squirmed under the heat of it until I safely tucked into the bathroom.

It was fifteen minutes before six when I stepped out of the bathroom. Agatha was up now leaving a neatly made bed. I smiled at it and let my eyes trail over to her. She was on the phone stretching out a sigh. I didn’t pay much attention to what she saying, too busy focused on staring. She turned to me and shot me a wink forcing a burning smile out of me.

Agatha used the bathroom after her phone call. She came out looking refreshed and my gut sank knowing we had to part ways now. It was six and I still had to grab breakfast and stop at Chloe and Brooks place for clothes.

She sauntered over to me pulling me out of my thoughts and wrapped me in a hug. I sighed into her shoulder and tugged her in.

“I’ll be in the office for a bit today, but if you need me for anything I’ll be there at the drop of a hat, okay?” She nuzzled the words into the side of my head.

I nodded and squeezed her hip. “Can you come back again? Later after I get home.”

“Of course.” She squished me closer.

“It might be late again like last night.” I warned eyes glancing at the clock on the stove.

“I don’t care if it’s midnight.” She fiercely replied. I scrunched my nose and dug it into her shoulder trying to rub away the urge to kiss her. I wanted it to be perfect. Not on a puffy eyed morning on my way to a hospital.

Eventually, I dragged myself out of her grip to slip my shoes on. Tears were trying to break out as I tied my laces. I didn’t want to leave her. I didn’t want to spend a day looking at Chloe in a hospital bed again. I didn’t want to think about the room there still was for her health to take a dive. I stood up and quickly shoved a pair of sunglasses on my face trying to mask it. My throat was burning holding it all in. Maybe, if I didn’t speak I could handle keeping it in until after we parted ways. I turned slipping my coat on. Agatha bent over fixing her own shoes on. I swallowed hard watching her and quickly wiped a tear that snuck out.

She stood up looking at me with a perfect smile. It instantly dropped when she reached my face. I wasn’t sure what gave it away, probably my unsteady chin.

“Honey.” It eased out of her in a low aching way.

I instantly broke down, head dropping. She was around me in an instant and I clawed around her desperately.

“I wish you could come.” I whispered into her shoulder, breath stuttering over my tears.

“I know.”

When I calmed down and pulled back she took my sunglasses off and started wiping away my tears. I closed my eyes leaning into her hand. Her scent pushed past my runny nose as she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. She pulled her lips away, hands cradling either side of my head and kept her nose and lips ghosting over me. I could feel every breath settle over my skin. I kept my eyes shut simmering in the moment. She pressed another soft kiss to my forehead then my right temple. The both of us were breathing heavier now. Another kiss pushed against the apple of my cheek and my hands tightened a grip around her coat.

My nose was stuffy, eyes felt raw and my ears thrummed. I felt like the least attractive person in the world, but every time her lips touched my skin it shooed away any thought on my state mattering. A kiss against my nose opened my eyes. Her own were searing on me already. I watched as they closed and she slipped another kiss against the middle of my other cheek. I slipped my hands under her coat and tugged her a bit sharply against me. I felt the effect of it shake out of her throat.

I stopped breathing when her nose brushed against mine. A rough breath out of her warmed my lips and danced into my own mouth. She dragged her nose against either side of mine, blue eyes hidden behind their lids. She opened them and as our eyes met again it was like the world stopped spinning just for the moment.

I reached my right hand up to tuck around the back of her head, and sunk my fingers into the hairs on the back of her neck. She hummed and a crooked smile broke out on the side of her lips. My chest felt like a volcano ready to explode.

Her eyebrows pinched in, face taking on a serious glow. She leaned in ever so slightly, both of our eyes fluttering closed. The loud blaring ringtone of my phone was like a shock restarting the earths turn.

I sighed and dropped my forehead to her chest. I pulled away leaving a hand against her hip as I grabbed my phone.

Mom.

I picked up trying to mask the annoyance. The usual worry for me was laced in her tone. She insisted that they would drive me, but I pushed back hard enough for her to drop it. I ended the call with letting them pick up the breakfast and meeting me at the hospital.

Guilt struck me up again during the call. Swept up in my own life, ignoring the things I had to do for the people that needed me. I shoved my phone into my pocket as Agatha’s gaze lay heavy on me.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered out as my eyes remained glued to the ground.

“Don’t be, darling.” She tapped my chin and I raised my eyes to her. “Come on.”

Her head gestured to the door with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I sighed and walked out as she held the door open.

Our shoes against the wooden stairs and the whipping wind were the only sounds as we walked to our cars. She pulled me in one more time as we reached her drivers door.

“I’ll see you soon, darling.” I nodded into her shoulder steeling myself. “I’m just a call away.” Every word was soothing.

I nodded again and pulled away. I stared at her for a few seconds. She was so gorgeous it almost hurt to look at her. I focused on her lips hidden behind my sunglasses. With a sigh I backed away breaking the magnet.

“I’ll text you in a little while.” I said dully forcing a half smile.

It was her turn to nod. We both got in our cars and pulled off in our separate directions.

I probably packed way too much for the hospital from Chloe and Brooks house. Clothes for the both of them. Pillows, blankets and chargers.

My parents were waiting at the entrance with breakfast when I arrived.

When we entered the room it looked as if Brooks hadn’t moved an inch. A grin broke out on his face when he looked up.

“She just squeezed my hand.” I swear I could see the physical relief wash over him as he said it.

The doctor popped in right after us to check in. She didn’t carry any worry, which seemed like a good sign.

The four of us ate breakfast and Brooks changed into his own clothes.

We had just finished up lunch when Chloe’s head started shifting. Her eyes opened and the heart monitor kicked up a bit. All four of us jumped to a stand in sync.

“Hey, you’re okay baby. You’re okay.” Brooks shushed out to her brushing her forehead.

She groaned, eyes darting around the room taking everything in. Her panic started to settle down after a moment. My dad went to grab someone to check on her. A weight felt like it had been vacuumed out of the room. Tears of relief silently slid down my cheeks as I hovered near the bed.

She tried to say something, but only a croaky noise came out.

“We got in an accident. You’re gonna be okay though.” Brooks eased out to her and kissed her forehead.

Her knuckles were white holding his hand. Chloe’s eyes landed on mine and she burst out into tears. I stifled what I could and walked over, resting a hand on her leg.

The three of us cried, only pulling ourselves together when the doctor came in.

They still needed to do scans and keep an eye on her, but the doctor was pretty confident she’d be okay.

The first thing Chloe said when her throat lost it’s dryness was how sorry she was. She remembered everything. I could tell how guilty she felt about it. Brooks tried to ease her mind on it, but it didn’t look as if it made it any better.

My parents had left an hour ago and I decided to take a walk to let them have some time alone.

After a walk around the hospital, I made it back and urged Brooks to go home for a little bit to freshen up with my car. It took some convincing, ultimately Chloe giving him no option but to go. There was no arguing with her.

“So, how’ve ya been?” She dragged it out casually as if it was just an ordinary catch up.

The both of us laughed.

“Seriously, update me.” She smirked. “I need all of the details. I’m injured. I deserve it.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Not even a ruptured spleen can stop you, huh?” I joked leaning back in my chair.

“If anything it’s fueling me.”

“So, had a good Christmas. Got a new furniture set for the roof. Good stuff.” I smiled innocently and shrugged.

She sighed and closed her eyes. “So help me god if you don’t give me the details of what’s happened between you and Agatha since I’ve seen you I’m going to scream.”

I snorted. “Nothing much really.” I thought about everything that had happened in the past few days and laughed. “That’s a lie.”

I started with the present drop off and spilled it all. Well, most of it. I did tell her about the pictures, but didn’t really detail them.

Her mouth hung open with a disbelieving joy through most of it. It finally shut when I finished off with last nights happenings.

“I am so sorry my state has put a hold on all of this.” Her eyes narrowed. “Ohh, the damn tension.”

She said the last part a little loud and winced grabbing her side. She wasn’t supposed to move from laying on her back for a while. I sat up and patted her leg.

“Take it easy.”

She nodded a little dejectedly, but a smile still peeked out the end. It was easy for the both of us to escape the reality of the situation as we talked.

“How are you feeling, really?” I asked gently.

She’d been putting on a brave face. I could tell.

She sighed, head tilting up to the ceiling. “I’m feeling too much.” I grabbed her hand as she paused. “Everything hurts. I feel awful.” She squeezed my hand and looked back to me teary. I nodded and brushed my thumb against her.

“I’m so fucking happy you��re okay.” She nodded with a shaky smile. We sat quietly after that, hands gripped tightly together conveying a back and forth without words.

Brooks came back looking much better. Sarah arrived shortly after he got back. A friend of hers picked her up from the airport. Her daughter, Gracie, was uncomfortable from the get. She had only just turned six. It was overwhelming for adults never mind a little thing like her. I took her to grab ice cream near by and get her away from it.

It was nearing visiting hours ending when we got back. Sarah was staying at Chloe and Brooks so I offered to drive them. Then we found out the arrival time of Chloe’s parents.

Two in the morning. Of course, i offered to pick them up. I couldn’t not offer.

I excused myself for a minute before we left to call Agatha.

“Hi, heading home?” Agatha asked softly.

I let out a long, long sigh. “Technically, but not for long.” I sighed again before somberly continuing. “I’m driving Chloe’s sister to their place. Then I have to try and find a semblance of sleep, before I have to get her parents from the airport at two in the morning and then work. So, I suppose there’s no sense in us both losing sleep over this.”

Talking about our sleeping habits in a singular felt unreal.

A pitiful hum sounded from her. “I don’t mind you know? I have to be up early to head to the office anyways.”

I laughed lightly. “Mmm, two am early though?” “No, not really, but early bird and all that.” “Agatha.” I breathed out. “Get some sleep for the both of us.”

Obviously I wanted her to come over. There was no sense behind it. I tried to convince myself of that anyways. An idea of leaving her behind in my bed, kissing her on the cheek as I left sat nicely in my head. I’d already dug too far deep telling her not to come.

“I miss you.” She said softly.

I groaned shooting my head back. “Ditto.” I turned walking the short distance back to Chloe’s room. “Let me get these two home. Her little one hates it here, poor thing. I’ll text you when I get home.”

“Okay. Drive safe.”

I paused near the door at her words. “I will.”

The line lay silent before I hung up.

Sarah and Gracie were so tired that they both fell asleep on the ride. After waking Sarah, I carried Gracie in for her. We said our goodbyes, Sarah shooting me way too many unnecessary thank you’s.

As I pulled down my street, I found myself hoping the warm shower would knock me out.

My heart nearly leapt out of my chest when I turned into the driveway.

There, leaning against the hood of her car, stood the all consuming woman herself. Her smile was a mingle of soft and smug. I could practically feel the gears protest at how fast I shifted to park. Turning off the car, I ripped the keys out and hurried out of the door.

I walked up to her, halting a few inches away.

“This why you didn’t fight me about not coming over?” I kept my head down. My focus on our shoes as I nudged my foot into one of hers. I spoke up again, brushing a hand against her crossed arms. “Just planned on ignoring me and doing it anyways?”

Her arms uncrossed in a blink gripping me into her. “You’re just too sweet, not wanting me to lose sleep.” She nuzzled the next part into my ear low. “I know you wanted me here. Just as bad as I wanted to be here.”

I actually felt like I was suffocating under her words. When my body felt like it stopped having an internal earthquake, I melted into her heavily.

Eventually we moved into the house and I took the fastest shower I ever had.

Just the same as last night, Agatha lay under the covers on the left side of my bed. Her glasses were on as she read something on her phone screen. It was only the second time I had seen them on her.

My mind turned evil picturing her in nothing but her glasses. I bit the inside of my cheek veering my eyes off of her as I walked to the bed.

I set my alarm and folded the covers down to climb in. She was looking at me, chin down and eyes dusting above her glasses on the end of her nose. I could feel every goosebump rippling up at the sight of her.

I averted my eyes again and slid under the covers.

“Just have to read over something quick. It’ll only take a few minutes.” She muttered, attention going back to her phone.

“No worries.”

I lay back close to her side, head nearly on her pillows. Her eyes were squinted, brows piercing down as her eyes skimmed quickly over what she was reading. I was held in the trance she always found a way to keep me in.

A smirk shifted and crawled slowly up the side of her mouth.

Her eyes stay trained on the phone as she spoke. “You’re staring.” She said it in a sing song way.

I reached up smiling and poked the arm of her glasses, jostling them minutely. “Yes.”

There was no need to deny it. I couldn’t imagine not wanting to stare at her, always.

After locking her phone she pushed her now crooked glasses up to rest on the top of her head. She looked down to me wordlessly smiling. I expected her to have an air of teasing about her, but was met with the softest look I may have ever seen from her.

The look left something thick in the air. She broke it by placing her glasses and phone on her bedside table. I reached over clicking the light. Agatha lay waiting for me with open arms. It was like a well practiced dance crawling into her. Just the same as last night. I tucked into her as she wrapped me up.

Sleep was proving easy to come upon with her hands running through my hair.

My tired mind possessed me to open my mouth. “I like your glasses.” I whispered it, eyes closed into the crook of her neck.

She laughed low shooting an extra tingling scratch on my scalp. “I know.”

Of course she knew.

My alarm was like a gun sounding at twelve thirty am. I quickly stretched over to silence it and fell back forward. Agatha was stirring. She’d shifted to her side at some point, back to me. Our legs were tangled and my face was pressed into her wild hair that smelt too good. I pulled her in tight to my chest letting out a sigh. It was her turn to let out a grumpy tired groan today. She turned in my grip to face me. She looked like a child getting woke for school. Her nose was scrunched and her eyes barely looked open. I laughed causing her to bury her head under my neck.

“Are you regretting coming over yet?” I asked playfully as I rubbed her back.

“No.” It was quiet, almost not even spoken.

I laughed again and squeezed her before slipping away. She let out a noise in protest as she grabbed the back of my shirt trying to tug me back down.

“Agatha.” I groaned out pleading.

I knew she could easily convince me to stay warm with her for five more minutes. It took close to an hour to get to the airport so I knew I had to go. A huff sounded as she released her grip on me.

Standing I pulled the covers back over her and grabbed my phone.

I’d already set out my clothes at night. I grabbed them and quickly went to the bathroom. By the time I was ready to go it was almost one o’clock. Agatha was still in bed, but on her phone. I knew she didn’t have to actually be awake until around five. I slid my shoes on and tied them. The blankets rustling gathered my attention to the bed to see her getting up.

Smiling I breezed over and pushed her back down gently. “Go back to sleep.”

She watched quietly as I gathered the comforter back over her.

“What if I rob you blind?” She asked as she rubbed her chin on the comforter.

I laughed loudly dropping down on my fists to either side of her. “I don’t think you have a need for anything in my house.”

Surely she could replace every single little thing double, easily.

She made a humming sound as she wrapped her hand around my wrist. “Might need to steal a new sweatshirt.” It came out as a warning with a glint in her eyes. “The other one has lost your essence.”

I stared at her dumb for a moment as her words sunk in. I stood upright and walked over to my closet grabbing a random sweatshirt. I ripped the one I had on off and slipped the new one on. I’d already spritzed perfume on the one I was wearing. I was thrumming as I walked over and handed her the one I had on.

Smiling she sat up and slipped it on. She held the collar up to her nose and breathed in deep confirming why she wanted it.

The urge to lean over and kiss her on the lips was like a freight train. I’d never make it to the airport if I did that. I decided on the safer option instead.

Dropping back over her, I placed a long kiss onto her forehead. Lips still against her skin I whispered. “I’ll be back.”

Her movement was quick, her nose now pressed to the side of my face. Her lips grazed my cheek right near the corner of my mouth. I closed my eyes, fist gripping the bedding as a storm built in my gut.

She let out a low noise followed by a chuckle. I really thought for a second she was just going to do it. Both of us stopped breathing for what felt like an eternity before she chastely kissed my cheek and dropped back down.

I could just make out her features in the low oven light. Her typical confidence was there, but beneath it all she was flustered too.

“Go on, kitten.” She poked my chest still a little breathless. “Before you get yourself into trouble.”

My eyes slammed shut at her words. “What the fuck.” I whispered it and an evil chuckle from her followed.

“Clock’s ticking.” She sounded again, knowing exactly what she was doing to me.

I pushed my face into hers fast, nose pinning against her own. She sucked a sharp breath in that never released, features darkening. “That’s not nice to say things like that when I have to leave.”

I pushed a sigh out, spearmint breath ghosting into her mouth. She let out an honest to god whimper, eyebrows pinching together.

I shot up taking my leave while I had a semblance of the upper hand. We settled one last look over each other before I pushed out the door.

My thoughts were distracting and graphic the whole way. I tried to hammer it down, but it was unstoppable. Kitten? What the fuck was that? More important, how did she know the way it would flame out of her mouth and seep under my skin. She was always a step ahead.

I made the mistake halfway there picturing her touching herself in my bed after I left.

The force of the thought had me gripping the wheel the rest of the way. As I pulled into the airport pickup line, I was pushing thoughts of the poor rabbit I accidentally hit last year into my head. Something, anything to get a bare moaning vision of Agatha out of my head.

When Chloe’s parents stepped out, it turned the visions of Agatha into soft mumbles in the back of my head. Seeing their worry and pain was a wake up call, and again, I was feeling guilty.

They looked like they dropped a thousand pounds off their shoulders at the good news of her being awake and stable.

I explained all of the details I had on the way to their house. The conversation grew into easier topics as the wheels turned.

We finished the ride in a tired silence. All three of us had bags under our eyes ready to form their own gravitational pull.

They thanked me and hugged me countless times when I dropped them off. It was all a tired mix of chatter. It was nearly three when I drove off for home. I rolled down all the windows to let the cold snapping air in. Fifteen minutes.

I sluggishly climbed the stairs when I got home. I’d already set another alarm for five thirty. Agatha was still tucked in bed softly breathing. Quietly, I slid my shoes and coat off and tip toed over to my closet. I cautiously slipped my jeans off and sweatpants back on. I crawled in next to her slowly and she started to stir.

Something murmured out of her sleepily as she leeched onto me. She was everywhere in seconds. Hair in my face, arms and hands gripping around me, legs scrambled into mine as her feet moved against my own warming them.

It felt like I had closed my eyes for two seconds before my alarm went off.

Agatha was already holding my phone and silencing it. She was on her back now holding me into her. Her eyes were on me with a lazy smile waiting for me to look up.

“Hi.” She reached her hand out to brush the bridge of my nose as she said it.

I hummed tucking into her shoulder.

“Can I use your shower, darling?” She asked after a moment. “I’m going to head to the office right after I leave.”

My heart rate spiked, but I somehow kept my voice even. “Of course.”

It was her turn to pull away and out of the bed and my turn to protest. I watched her as she grabbed her bag and walked to the bathroom. “Towels and wash cloths are under the sink.” I called out as she stepped past the door.

She turned to look over her shoulder. Her eyes lingered on me for what felt like an eternity. With a smile, a nod and a wink she disappeared behind the door.

I sighed and rubbed my face before crawling out of bed. I made the bed and checked my phone. The sound of the water running was distracting me. Thoughts of her naked behind that door. Warm water dripping down her skin. Said skin smelling like me after using my soap.

I caught myself just standing and staring at the door. It felt like the steam from the room was slipping out of the door seams and into my body.

It was too much for this early.

I slipped my jeans and shoes back on and trudged out the door down the steps to the cafe. Making her a coffee would distract just enough. I returned with a to go cup for her and could hear the hair dryer I almost never used whirring.

Brooks sent a text that had tears springing up and a smile spreading.

‘I think she’s going home tomorrow.’

I wiped the happy tears away.

‘Thank god. That’s awesome. I’ll call in a bit when a lull breaks at the cafe. Love you guys.’

I pocketed my phone after sending the text, walking to the kitchen. I stirred a bowl of oatmeal together and placed it in the microwave just as Agatha emerged from the bathroom.

The bathroom burst with a warm enchanting smell around her. It was all my products, but they smelt so different on her. I could tell she’d spritzed her signature perfume as well. It reeled me in like a trance and I found myself wrapping around her mindlessly.

She watched me move to her in a commanding stance. Dropping her bag to her foot she waited, like she knew I’d be swept in.

Her right hand reached out for my hip before I fully reached her. Her glossed lips glinted against her confident smirk.

The strongest concentration of her perfume was right at her neck and chest. I tucked into her wishing it to linger on me after she’d left. It sent a thrill through my chest, the idea of having her scent on me. Claimed.

“Chloe might be going home tomorrow.” I whispered excitedly swaying us back and forth a few times.

“That’s wonderful news, darling.” The hand on my hip smoothed over to my lower back as she spoke.

If a stranger approached me right now and said all of this was my imagination, I think I’d believe it.

It was easier to believe than the reality of having this woman so surely in my hold. That this wildly intoxicating woman was just a breath away from being mine and I hers.

I pulled back grinning at her. “Now.” I turned back to the kitchen, her hand only slipped from me when I moved out of reach. “Can I interest you in some boring apple cinnamon oatmeal?”

“Sign me up, kitten.” It drawled out drawing my gaze to her with a snap.

She was approaching, and waiting. Always waiting for me. I feigned casual and turned away to mix another cup of oatmeal. Goosebumps climbed up and down my spine from that one word.

As the second bowl of oatmeal spun in the microwave, I willed myself to relax. There was no sense in getting worked up like this right before work.

Of course, all knowing of my thoughts seemingly, she crept up and her arms snaked around my waist. I fell into her front, eyes closing. I could have fallen right back to sleep standing here with her. I grumbled as the microwave beeped. “I don’t know how the fuck I’m gonna make it through the day.” I pulled away to grab the oatmeal.

“I’ll check in on you.” An amusement was on her tongue. “Make sure you’re still upright.”

I let out a dry laugh and faced her holding out her oatmeal.

She moved over to me, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder leaning against the counter. We ate like that. Agatha dropped her itinerary for the day. It all felt like home. Obviously I lived here, but whatever was radiating off of us together warmed it, completed it.

All I could do was hope she felt it too.

I had to hold in a busting laugh at the door as we gathered up to leave. It was like a practiced in sync rhythm. I handed her the still warm coffee which earned a kiss on the cheek. It was ridiculous really. We hadn’t even kissed. Yet here we were preparing for the day like our lives had been intertwined for years. It felt like the phone number debacle all over again. She looked up from slipping her shoes on. “What?” She asked with a breathy laugh.

I had admittedly been staring, trying to hold in my laughter at it all. I shrugged in response holding her with an unwavering ease.

“Sweet girl.” She whispered it as she clicked over to me.

I fell into the inevitable hug she placed me in. Her fingers pressed heavily into my side. Each one felt significant against me.

The clock ticking pulled us away from each other. Her car lingered after I let her out and parked mine again. Her window rolled down as I approached.

“Have a good day, darling.”

Her blue eyes were like beacons in the morning light. I placed my hand on the door and she instantly reached out dancing fingers against it.

“You too. I’ll text in a bit.”

Smirking, she dropped her fingers from my skin and lowered her head down placing a soft kiss to the back of my hand. It left my hand gripping her car like a lifeline. I shook out of the haze it left me in.

“You’re going to be the death of me Agatha Harkness.” I called it out as I stepped back.

After I turned from her burning gaze, a loud cackle broke from her as she drove away.

#agatha x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x you #soft agatha #agatha harkness fluff #agatha harkness x reader

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starryeyeddreamer21 · 5 months ago

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I've been thinking about different stolitz I love yous so here are my top 4 in no specific order

1: This I love you is screamed. There's sobbing, they're begging, because something terrible is happening. Maybe they're being pulled away or maybe one of them is hurt and dying but either way they're afraid they'll never see each other again and if this is the last thing they get to say to each other it'll be the truth.

2: This I love you is an accident. They're going about their days and Blitzø says the words and Stolas says them back. Neither of them notice, it was very casual and they just continue going about their day. Suddenly hours later the moment suddenly hits them and they rush to find each other. Blitzø is apologizing in tears because he ruins everything he touches and he can't ruin this too. Stolas doesn't want to hear an apology he wants to know if Blitzø meant it because all Stolas ever wanted was to be truly loved for who he is. Blitzø says that of course he means it and they kiss and live happily ever after.

3: This I love you is planned. Blitzø knows he loves Stolas but he also knows he deserves the best. So he plans an entire day just for them so he can tell Stolas how he feels. This could go perfectly with everything going as planned but where's the fun in that? So everything that can go wrong goes wrong. Blitzø messes up breakfast, the van breaks down, their reservation is messed up, etc. Blitzø is trying to keep it together but is freaking out because it just keeps getting worse and worse. He's so focused on how his plans are being derailed that he doesn't notice Stolas having the time of his life. Stolas is just happy to be spending time together. Finally Blitzø just breaks down because not a single thing had gone right so Stolas has to tell him how he saw everything from his point of view. Blitzø just appreciates his bird so much that he blurts it out right then and there. It didn't go as planned but the entire situation was very on brand for their relationship and they remember that day fondly.

4: This I love you just felt right. There was nothing special about this day, nothing was preplanned, there was no life or death situation. They were just together. They were in pajamas on the couch at home watching some soap opera Stolas got Blitzø into. Stolas laughed at something on the TV and Blitzø turned to look at him. There was no perfect time to say I love you but that moment seemed as good a time as ever.

The two things all of these have in common is 1: Blitzø says it first because that's just how I think it'll go and 2: It happens on a full moon no matter what

#might write a little stolitz series with these cause I think they're fun #stolas helluva boss #blitzø helluva boss #stolitz #helluva boss

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flower-boi16 · 11 months ago

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Helluva Boss could have been something very special in the animation industry, in fact, it used to be something special in the animation industry back when Season 1 was first coming out.

I remember when the first few episodes of the show were coming out and they were blowing up, so much hype was surrounding this show and for good reason; there was nothing like it out there. An indie animated series with high-quality animation and proffesional voice-actors working on it?

That was insaine at the time, and it helped popularize indie animation which is why so many amazing indie shows exist today. Helluva Boss may not be a good show but I am grateful it at least exists. HOWEVER, that doesn't excuse the flaws the show had.

The show could've continued to use all of it's ideas effectively and make a good, well-written show, continueing to create a high-quality show that people can watch for free on youtube...but it didn't do that.

Season 2 could've been a fantastic second season that took all the ideas the first season had, polished them up more and bring the show to it's fullest potiential...but that didn't happen.

Instead, the writting took a turn for the worst as all the things the first season set up were assasinated in the second, plot lines are given unsatisfying follow-ups, characters got derailed, episodes began having noticeably more holes in them, and the show lost focus and abandoned it's premise in favor of being a soap opera. Helluva Boss always had it's haters like any show that grew popular but not nearly to the same extent as when Season 2 came out.

Many fans of Season 1 became dissapointed at what the show had become in the second season and became critics, and now, thanks to the show's declining quality, it has become fairly devisive amongst the internet and episodes are declining in views significantly than before.

A new episode of Helluva Boss used to feel like an event to get excited about, now it just feels like a chore. It's really sad to see what this show has become when it could have been so much more. The latest two episodes have been especially polarizing and I feel it's only a matter of time before more people start seeing this flaws.

Season 2 did the exact opposite of what a second season should do; instead of fixing the first season's flaws it makes them worse, instead of continueing what made the first season good it ruins it and creates new problems, and instead of bringing the show to it's fullest potiential, it destorys all of it and turns it into a shell of it's former self.

#vivziepop critical #hazbin hotel critical #vivziepop criticism #helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism

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pekoehoneyncream · 10 months ago

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Gaz and Soap Learn to Cartwheel

Words: 1200~

TW: None (sfw)

Feat: Ghost, Gaz, & Soap

More prompt writing from randomly generated prompts. This time the prompt was 'Gymnastics'. Again written from a Ghost centric pov. I picture his internal monologue as being super sassy and I love writing all his acerbic little quips.

Ghost exited the rear base doors only to have his well-earned smoke break derailed by the sight of the impromptu circus auditions his teammates were apparently participating in. Gaz and Johnny had somehow been suckered into learning how to cartwheel by one of the base’s Privates.

Taking another look at the cavalcade of failures that was happening on the base’s back lawn, Ghost reconsidered. Gaz and Johnny had somehow suckered a Private into teaching them how to cartwheel.

There wasn’t much cartwheeling actually happening, other than when either of the two chuckle-fucks whinged and demanded that the Private showed them again. The Private, Ghost studied her hard for a moment, trying to dredge her name up from the mass of new recruits that were constantly revolving through the base. He was pretty sure it was Fallur, or something like that. It definitely started with a ‘Fal’... Or was it a Val, Vallur? Private Vallur? No, no, it was definitely Fallur.

A particularly loud thump drew Ghost’s attention away from his thoughts. He focused up to see Johnny laying face down, making a noise that might have been a groan in another life. A life where Johnny hadn't just belly-flopped into the dirt and knocked all the air out of his lungs. Gaz was also having trouble breathing, bent double by the force of his laughter.

“I said to guide his feet, not try to push him through it.” Private Fallur’s voice was muffled by the hands she was rubbing over her face.

Ghost took in the many grass stains and smears of dirt that covered his Sergeants’ clothes and deduced that they’d been attempting this for far longer than any sane adult would bother troubling themself with, especially for such a useless skill. If it had been just Johnny or just Gaz on their own, they probably would have called it quits by now, but both of his idiots were so goddamn competitive that they were just egging each other on. Both determined to be the first to do it right.

“Once more, ah nearly have it noo, show us again woul’ ye, Falsvur?” Johnny had pulled himself to his feet, dusted himself off, and was now making his Puppydog eyes at the poor Private.

Falsvur! That was it! He’d been close, he knew it was ‘Fal’ something.

Falsvur drew in a deep breath, letting it move her shoulders and expand her ribs, holding it for a long calming moment, then letting it out in a long resigned sigh.

“Fine,” she agreed, “but only one more time, I’m not missing dinner.” She pointed a stern finger at the Sergeants, who were smiling and nodding at her like grateful bobbleheads.

Falsvur straightened up, stared down the lawn for a moment, then took a quick step, threw her arms up, and tossed herself forward into a -from what Ghost could tell- impeccable cartwheel. Straight arms, straight legs, strong core, solid landing, no noodleish flopping or eating dirt.

If Ghost was the judge he’d give her a ten.

Gaz and Johnny had watched her maneuver like starving dogs, eyes intent, and faces serious. Ghost had seen them less solemn at funerals.

Much nodding and ‘Okay’ing came from the 141’s corner of this impromptu cartwheel showdown. His Sergeants seemed determined to get it right this time. Ghost slid his phone from his pocket and started recording, feeling a bit mournful he hadn’t been around to watch what must have been some truly glorious first attempts. Completely forgetting his want for a cigarette.

After a brief scuffle and a furious round of paper-scissors-stone, it was determined that Gaz would be going first.

Gaz lined himself up, staring blankly ahead and shaking out his arms like he was going into a fight. After a long moment of nothing, Gaz ran a few steps then threw himself forward. His hands made contact, his feet left the ground, and Ghost watched him deliberately straighten out his spine as his feet passed over his head, but he must have overcorrected somehow.

Gaz’s focused look took on a panicked hue as his legs started tipping backwards and he fell out of his cartwheel, landing on his hands and feet in a sort of table or crab-esque pose. Gaz stayed there for a moment, then went limp, dropping into the dirt with a loud groan of disappointment, “Fuckin' COME ON!” he shouted at the sky, slapping at the ground to work through his frustration.

“ooo, an’ ya nearly had it there too.” Johnny cooed with mock sympathy, a shit-stirring grin splitting his cheeks.

Gaz’s head snapped around, his ire finding a new focus, “Go on then,” he goaded “you do it, since it's so easy.”

Johnny’s smile fell off his face and he drew himself up, “Mebbe ah will,” he retorted, walking over a few paces so he had a clear runway and wouldn’t hit anyone.

Johnny did the same nothing stare-down, that Ghost was coming to understand was integral to cartwheeling, then lunged forward. Forgoing any runup in favour of just pitching himself headfirst into his attempt. His hands hit the dirt and he threw his legs up with a grunt, keeping his spine straight as his feet passed over his head, but neglecting -Ghost noted- to fully unbend his knees. Johnny’s feet started to come down on his other side, but he had too much momentum and couldn’t stick the landing. His legs folded under him and he ended in an awkward crouch, all his weight sat uncomfortably on his tangled feet. Trying to stand failed and Johnny fell out of his newly invented yoga pose to land on his ass with an upset grunt and an upsetter pout.

Gaz’s snickering reached him through his sulk, and Johnny whipped around to fervently defend his honor, “Ah still did better than ye!”

Gaz gasped with what seemed to be genuine offense, “You did not! Your legs were bent the whole time!” Gaz shouted as he stood -having not bothered to before- to properly lord over Johnny’s failings.

“Bu’ ah didnae tip o’er half way noo did ah, ya pishin dafty!” came what Ghost could only assume was Johnny's rebuttal, as he too stood up. Immediately getting in Gaz’s face.

“That doesn't mean you did any better! It just means your fail was longer!” Gaz bit out, then suddenly remembered that they weren’t alone and turned on Falsvur, “Tell him, Private!”

Johnny also turned to face down the poor woman, “Aye! Tell the bampot all his eggs are double-yoakit, as he cannae see it himsel’,” he planted a hand on his hip and pointed an accusing finger in Gaz’s direction without even deigning to actually look over at him.

“Uhm!” Private Falsvur squeaked, holding up her hands to ward off the highly trained special forces military men, who were demanding she rank their cartwheels, “Uh, you both did better than you did before. You’re definitely improving!” She gave them a grin and a shaky thumbs up.

Gaz and Johnny were stopped from making any kind of reply as Ghost finally lost the stangle-hold he’d been struggling to maintain over his composure and went down in hysterics.

The Sergeants gawped with open mouths and horrified eyes as their Lieutenant slowly sank down the wall behind him, hugging his belly and heaving with laughter. Phone still clutched in one hand.

Ghost was sure that the last part of the video was going to be nigh-on unwatchable with how hard he’d been shaking with silent giggles, but it was so worth it.

Ghost felt his eyes start to sting as his tears made his eye-black run and tried to calm down, taking deep breaths and blowing them out slowly. When only one breath in three ended with a giggle, Ghost slid his phone securely back into his pocket and opened his eyes to find his Sergeants standing over him, one sheepishly, one impatiently, and Private Falsvur nowhere to be seen.

“Well? Wasnae mah cartwheel better?”

Tada! Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! If you're wondering, the first thing Ghost did with that video is show it to Price.

If you have an idea or a prompt you want me to write, please tell me! My ask box is open.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

#idk how to tag this #does tumblr have platonic tags?#cod oneshot #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #PekoeHoneynCream #soap cod #soap call of duty #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #cod

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qedmirage · 4 months ago

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Conclave (2024)

They don't make movies like this very often.

Conclave (dir. Edward Berger) is a 20 million $ drama film with strong political thriller and mystery elements. That's not a lot of money to make a film these days, solidly in the 'mid budget' area, but the "drama movie about several characters locked in a scenic locale" is an honorable and excellent tradition.

The basic setup is that, well, the pope has died and there's to be a conclave to elect his successor; Ralph Finnes as Cardinal Lawrence is the Dean of the College of Cardinals and must manage the overall proceedings. And a papal election conclave is never, I think, an event that goes smoothly or as expected; it happens rarely enough and the stakes are so high that there's always going to be something to give the Dean a headache.

Well Lawrence must have gotten dealt an awful hand because almost immediately there are two separate soap opera level twists; one cardinal (a known alcoholic) alleges Tremblay, one of the favorites in the election, was dismissed the night before the pope's death rendering him ineligible for the election. And another cardinal...shows up? He has been appointed in pectore, in secret as the Archbishop of Kabul (okay, fair, I can see why that guy would be secret). In the real world that disqualifies you from election if you haven't had your identity publicized (because soap opera twists are bad) ; in the film's world the relevant rules are different so they can have their twist. All in all this means Lawrence - now the most senior person on the scene - must figure out the truth of those allegations, while also participating in the election, without coming across as influencing it, and oh yes he's sequestered and forbidden to talk to the outside world. Have fun, detective!

Some things stand out about this film in particular. Firstly, the major characters are all Cardinals; they are men of letters, with knowledge of several languages, deep familiarity with scripture, etc. Basically, they're kind of nerds, all locked in a room to determine which among them gets to be the next boss.

And secondly and somewhat relatedly this is a film where the characters are quite sincere in their beliefs. It's good character writing! Okay, getting much further will require lots of spoilers, so if you click on the read more or go past the big image, you have been warned! Spoilers ahead!!

I really liked the various ways Lawrence and other characters play hardball with their vows in this film. The nuns who serve the cardinals food and clean up the hotel they use are not sequestered...but the cardinals are. At one point when Lawrence wants to get access to a report a nun does not give it to him, but she logs into her computer...and leaves the room. And wouldn't you know it, Lawrence ends up with the report just after that! A very funny thing is that while the allegations against Tremblay seem to be true, the report Lawrence publicizes is taken as a heavy-handed move and doesn't seem likely to derail his candidacy. What does take him down is that he arranged for a specific nun to be present, and she seemed to embarrass another cardinal. Tremblay says he did this on the pope's orders and he....might not be wrong? Like the past pope is described as a chess master and it would be really funny if he ordered candidate A to take a move against candidate B he knew would be exposed and sink both of them.

Okay, some faster thoughts. While the film's sympathies lie in the progressive direction (more on that in a moment) the progressive Cardinal Bellini doesn't come off so noble to me. He seems at times too focused on the hard-nosed politics required to keep Tedesco out vs. Lawrence's descriptions of faith. But hey, you do NOT want Tedesco to win, so it's not like he doesn't have a good reason!

And last but not least, the final twist.

So the winner of the election ends up being Benitez, that in pectore candidate from the start. And Benitez, it turns out, is intersex.

The film handles this with a level of care that's not so common in media. That's right! The "Catholic Church Movie" is one of the better LGBTQIA+ films of the year! Surprise, bozos!

This is a twist but it's one that makes you want to revisit and rethink earlier parts of the film. Why was Benitez, who seems so sure of his beliefs in confrontations with Lawrence, such a fan of Lawrence's prayer about embracing doubt and uncertainty?

Benitez during the film is someone who's already figured out who they are and how to handle their "situation", ultimately deciding against surgical alteration to remove his female organs. "I am as god made me."

There's a tendency in mass media to over-emphasize surgical and biological aspects of gender presentation, but Benitez is someone who's very clear that having ovaries doesn't define who he is.

#conclave #a good movie #qedmirage watches film #we love a documents thriller here

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saucyjothoughts · 9 months ago

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It sounds like a few of you are having a hard time, and while I don't want to derail completely from the intended theme of this blog, I thought we could take a little break from the wilder concepts tonight to think about some emotional healing.

So if you need it right now, please think about your favourite Joker(s) cancelling their plans to pop round to your place (whether you asked him to or he was just worried about you) maybe with a shiny gift to help cheer you up. Is it takeout (with a milkshake)? A nice bottle of wine to help you unwind? Some far-too-expensive soaps and bath bombs? A novel you've been looking for? Some fluffy socks for winter?

Maybe he puts some music on and helps you complete some of the stressful jobs you've been putting off, then runs you a bath and changes your bedsheets and finds a list of movies for you to choose from. Not that you're going to watch it - you'll be too busy telling him about everything that's been going on.

It's enough that he holds you while you talk, letting you feel safe and warm against his body as he listens, punctuating your therapy with kisses on the top of your head and stroking your arm and letting you listen to his heart beat through his chest.

It's getting late.

Do you mind if he stays over?

Love you, boos xx

#bojan cvjetićanin #nace jordan #jure maček #kris guštin #jan peteh #fluff

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nocturnesanomaly · 1 year ago

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Chapter 4: I've never been one to let go

(Series Masterlist: Divine Violence) (Read on Ao3) (Inspired Playlist)

Series:The Divine Violence - Chapter 4: I've never been one to let go

Wordcount: 5.9K

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish x Gn!Reader

TW: (View masterlist for series tw and tags) - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Religious Trauma, PTSD, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Anxiety, Paranoia, Disturbing themes, Grooming, Self-harming behaviours

Description: You share your knowledge with the team, reminding you of darker pasts, while Simon seeks to rekindle his familiarity with you.

A/N: You. Yes you. Go drink water. Right now. Good job :)

[Prev chapter / Next Chapter]

The meeting room has lost its fresh smell a long time ago. Too many of the early morning hours spent looking over papers and files, that are all entirely useless to you. Paperwork. It had always been the bane of your existence, even back when it truly mattered to your career. Necessary, and all the more frustrating for it.

The morning sun had already arisen to be at the perfect angle, right where its shine hits you in the eyes when you bend down to read. It had no business being that sharp in this season. It provided so little heat in the late November days, and tended to become more of a hindrance than anything.

Every file on the table listed people of interest, cities, landmarks, field reports from past agents. You flip another one over, trying your best to ignore the file that lays at the edge of the table. The list of casualties. All the crimes of the cult wrapped up into one set of clipped documents. You didn't dare look, to see how many of the names and faces you'd recognize.

"Auness, Backfield, Springview..." Gaz lists off the cities on his document, "I haven't even heard about half of these."

Soap leans over the table from across him. He snatches the paper out of his hand, despite the little protesting sounds Gaz let's out. "Ah, think I’ve been to Springview once...lovely neighbourhood," Soap says with a grin on his face.

"They're all small communities, some were only truly fostered to life after the cult's influence," you inform them. The document in your hand lists off a field report from years ago, a group of soldiers passing by Backfield only to be met with hostility. There had been 10 when they went in, 2 came out. That had been the true start of it back then, when things really derailed.

It had been all over the news for a time. It's incredible how quickly the world forgets.

"All done by the dishonourable... Michael Wilder..." Gaz picks up the document that had been placed in the middle of the table. The only person that ever took any responsibility for it all. Though never suffering the consequences for his crimes, he let it be known he was the one that stood behind it all.

"Ah expected his name to sound different....well...anything other than Michael..." Soap makes a distasteful face, leaning back in his chair. "What kind of cult leader is named Michael, it's not a very intimidating name." Rich coming from a guy named Soap, you think, but the comment never leaves your mind.

"I think that's the point," Gaz corrects, to which you can only nod.

He did have another name once upon a time, but you can scarcely remember it now. Perhaps even before you truly got to know all the things he's done. Maybe he had a nicer side once, that was lost to some tragic event from bad people. It didn't do any good to dwell on it. Who he is now is your problem.

"Murder, Torture, Arson, Kidnapping, Rural crimes...bloody hell, what hasn't this guy done," Gaz says exasperated. There’re many things that man hasn't done that he wanted to; you don't doubt that he would've done a lot worse if there hadn't been a collapse in management. He was building something grand.

"Speculative all of them...can't connect him to all of it, but there's nobody else that could have possible been responsible, the cult is a collective." You can still remember what it was like the first time you walked amongst these cultists. The clear admiration, the shock and awe, the forsaken faith in a brighter future. They might have been misguided, but they truly believed in what they were doing, there was no deceit from them.

"Shit, even something as small as vandalism, who'd have thought" Soap points to it on the list.

"He burnt down a chapel."

Both of them turn their heads to you in an instant, the surprise on their face shows most of their thought process to you. There's not much to explain, the whole ordeal was pretty straight forward. The only crime you personally had physical evidence of still.

"Ah thought they were supposed to be a religious cult..."

"They are. And still he set fire to the chapel, watched it burn down along with the surrounding forest."

You don't feel like their open mouth in awe reaction is warranted. The cult has been responsible for far worse, is planning far worse, is doing far worse as you all speak for all you know. There's only one true problem with the retelling, you're not about to bore them with the details.

"Were there people inside? Any get out?" Gaz asks carefully.

"Twenty-two, none recovered."

The silence stretches out to an uncomfortable extent. You've already made it awkward. That's got to be a record for you by now, how long has it been? Not even 30 minutes. Despite how much you want to refute your words, they are true. There is nothing remotely funny about the group of people you're after.

"There's been more documented causalities, everything is accounted for," you try to sound reassuring, but it comes out as uncertain. The two men either don't care or don't seem to notice.

A chill runs through you, unexpected, a subtle reminder of the eyes on you. Once upon a time you'd be worried about sharing too much information with the wrong kinds of people, the reminder had been helpful then, now it was a nuisance.

"At least we finally have a good shot at getting to these guys," Gaz speaks up and tries to break the uncomfortable atmosphere you've created. "This is extensive work," he nods to you and gestures to the entire table, "impressive."

Soap nods to agree, and you follow the motion idly without thinking. A little too late, you let out a rushed, "thank you."

You block out the rest of their conversation, only perking up your head when anything of relevance was shared. The two kept a good flow of idle chatter and gossip. Nothing you paid any mind to, gossip wasn't why you were here, you reminded yourself.

"So have ye ever actually spoken with any of them?" Soap asks.

"Wha..what?" You stutter. The question came seemingly out of nowhere. You almost drop the pen in your hand. It would have made an annoying clattering sound if you did. The thought makes you tighten your grip.

"They seem like a nasty bunch, preaching all of that with no remorse," Soap continues in an attempt to explain himself, "have ye met with them? Spoken to Michael?"

You want to snap at him. It's a dumb question you want to say, inappropriate and entirely irrelevant to the investigation. Except it's not.

You want to shut him down just as badly regardless.

"Uh... I..." *Fuck me* "Yeah...he's not pleasant...listen I need to get a few of these files scanned in, so I can send them over to Laswell, you two just keep at it, and I'll be back." It's an obvious lie to everyone in the room, a bad attempt at getting out for fresh air. Neither of them comments on it, and within a flash you're gone.

Opening the front door is a dreaded action. You can already imagine the battlefield you'll be entering; the feint mumble of raised voices can already be heard from your position. The minefields are always planted carefully, specific spots that you don't expect unless you've been traversing those dirts for years at a time.

It's never specific, never the same thing.

One wrong step, and you've got someone screaming down your face.

That battlefield was your home.

Opening the door only makes the feint screaming louder to your ears. You quickly locate it to be the kitchen, easy enough to avoid. Just have to kick off your shoes, place them neatly, tiptoe past the little opening and through the living room, to the stairs and your room. All without being noticed.

"Deus spes nostra, my child."

You stop abruptly. The only reason you don't let out a loud squeak of surprise, is the hand you slapped across your mouth. Your head whips towards the couch, gone are all thoughts of the perfect view into the kitchen you're right in the middle of.

Your expression falls when you realize who it is. An old friend of your father's from his military days. He sat on the couch with his usual poise and striking manner. He'd been staying here for the last two months, something about vacation, something about deployment, something about no money, something about too much money.

You had tried asking your father several times, whenever he was in the mood for your presence. Each time you got a different answer, and there was no way you'd find yourself asking the actual man himself.

In no way did you dislike him. He'd always been nice to you, making conversation in the silence, giving you gifts when you were upset. He'd almost been a part of the family since you were young, but he'd been gone for several years, and now you felt like a different person to back then.

"What?"

A grin breaks across his face. His form relaxing into the cushions behind him as he regards you just long enough that you're about to repeat yourself.

"Did your father never teach how to properly respond?"

He runs a hand over smooth blond hair, bleached you'd say, but you have no doubt he'd disagree. Ever since he had come back, he tried to make conversation with you, foster a friendship with you, trying to become some type of adult figure in your life. You don't know what you actually see him as. A man, your father’s friend, a stranger mostly.

"Respond to what?"

"Deus spes nostra, you respond with Deus lux mea est." His stare is a piercing blue, spikes digging into your soul and setting hooks in flesh and meat.

"Why," you ask sceptically.

"It's an affirmation of our faith, an identifier, so to speak." He sees the way you stare quizzically, the way your brain is picking up on the small things, learning the minor details that you haven't even realized yet.

A loud bang can be heard from the kitchen, the split and shatter of glass, and then silence. Your mind panics at the implication, old defence mechanisms going into place. You flinch and move quickly to the nearest couch, curl up on it, making yourself seem as small and unnoticeable as possible. Every fibre in your body told you to end the conversation and go to your room, but the man didn't feel like letting you go just yet.

"Easy, my child, nothing will happen to you as long as you stay with me." He speaks soft words of comfort. It does nothing to ease you.

You try to combat the tremble in your voice, you put on a fierce look, one of strength and deep hidden anger.

"I'm not a child."

He chuckles at that. Two breaths, dry, not believing.

"Oh sure, you do seem very mature for your age."

He's mocking you. It's nothing you haven't heard before, despite the truth of the statement, you were still deemed a kid by most adults in your life. You felt like you had grown faster than the others, you acted with more care, more knowledge, and somehow you still feel behind in every aspect.

"I guess...people have told me that a lot" You look towards the opening to the kitchen. All it would take was for the conversation to become too loud, to bring attention upon yourself. It would be so easy to bring on the wrath of your father or the disgust of your mother. You had the marks to count for it.

"You're a special one, your father tells me as much. I can still remember when you were younger, always a bit peculiar." That would be a head turner if you've ever heard one. There’s no part of you that actually believes his words, yet he says them with such conviction.

Any word that comes out of your father’s mouth about you has never been in a positive light. Occasionally he'll drop a hint of satisfaction whenever you do something for him, but that's as good as it's gonna get. Being called special or peculiar by your father must be more of an insult.

The man reaches out and places an unwelcome hand on your knee. He seems to notice the change in your expression. An uncertain frown settling on your lips. "Not in a bad way, dear, you've got something others don't, a potential that others can't see, but I do," he says.

That doesn't reassure you in the slightest, but the little flame in your heart is already lit.

"You're turning eightteen soon, isn't that right? Next year?" He asks and pulls back again. He takes note in the way you seem to release the tension in your shoulders. There's no longer any noise from the kitchen. You don't hear it.

"Yeah..."

He smiles.

"Have you ever thought about enlisting? Serving with your brother and sisters in arms, I'm sure it'd make your father very proud." He seems too sure, and perhaps he was right. Your father's time in the military had always been described with honour and respect. A time of his life where he did something worthwhile, it made him the man he is today.

"Uh...I...No...I haven't"

You never want to be anything like him.

"You can't be serious, Simon!" Your voice echoes throughout the graveyard. A few of the crows in the trees fly off into the sunset. Simon knew you'd react like this. He thought himself prepared for your outrage, ready to comfort you and make you understand. Your emotions are intense and renders him silent.

"You can't go! What about everything we have going on here, we had a plan you know! You can't just bail on that."

The plan had always been a fantasy, he thought you knew that. Something you would whisper aloud in the quiet of the night. Dreams of running away, of scraping enough money to get a small flat together, of helping each other through the adult years of your life, at least until you both got stable.

He had seen it for what it was, a childish fantasy. It wasn't a reliable solution.

"God, and even just listening to the stories from my dad, it's awful there, why would you want to be a part of that!"

The graveyard feels ice-cold. The spider lilies are dead. There's no warmth to gain from the lowering sun, painting the sky in gold and orange. You've never looked more beautiful than this. Emotion so evident in your eyes, and the sun's glow reflecting it. He doesn't fail to notice the tears lining your eyes, the breaths you hold in an attempt to not cry.

You look divine, an angel on earth.

The last thing he wants is to see you plunged into darkness. Something he fears will happen when he takes his departure alone. He adores you, he always has deep down, but he needs to prioritize himself, get himself out before this place kills him completely.

"I thought we were in this together! I thought you cared for us, for me, for all this!"

Your words are chipping away at his patience. Your inability to understand his side of things, the unwilling part of you that won't even try. He understands as far as it allows him to. He knows you're afraid of what will happen if you're separated. You've always struggled with believing in yourself.

He knew you'd be fine. He knew you'd find your own way out, that you could be reunited in a few years somewhere better, healthier and safer.

"We are!" he yells back, "I care so much for you, for what we have even when it's here."

"Then why won't you-"

"But I can't stay here spider, it's killing me" he cuts you off. The words leave a sour taste on his tongue, it's the bare-bones truth that can be applied to both of you. Your own childhood homes weren't safe for neither of you. Mentally nor physically.

"I get that...but...what about me..."

"Spider, not everything is about you!" he regrets his words just as quick as they leave his mouth. He can see the look of betrayal on your face, it matches the dread he feels in his stomach. You take a retreating step backwards. "Wait-" he calls your name; he reaches for you, but you don't let him touch you.

"You have to understand, this is the only way out for me. In the military, I might actually be able to do some good," he tries to explain to you.

You're not having any of it.

"Fine, go then! Get yourself killed" you shout, turning on your heel before he can stop you. His brain screams at him to follow you, to comfort you, to get you to understand so you won't be mad at him, but he doesn't.

After years and years of searching, Simon has found that roaming the halls aimlessly has become an adequate stress relief. There are certain times of the day when the halls are completely deserted. Each step echoes and bounce off the walls around him. A rare occurrence when he doesn't care to make his steps featherlight, he let’s people hear he's coming.

It makes for a good trance of thought. He disliked most of the walks outside around base, the frost biting at his covered skin, and damp boots seeping water into his socks, but the hallways were dry and quiet. Most of the time.

He's solved a lot of internal problems this way. Stomping through the hallways deep in thought and looking as intimidating as ever. Back when he and Johnny were new and uncertain, he used to avoid him this way. One easy way to avoid someone who was always looking for you, was to always be on the move.

Of course, it hadn't worked forever, Johnny eventually found him, and made him confront his own feelings despite how uncomfortable it made him.

This time around, his thoughts drift to you. They always drift to you these days. Like a disease you've infested his thoughts, reminded him of things that was once buried deeply. There's still a lot of things unresolved between the two of you, things he wishes he could sit you down and talk to you about.

Ever since you've arrived, you had a weird effect on him. You manage to leave your presence in every room you walk into, he can almost sense where you've been, the people you've talked to. You're everywhere, and whenever he needs to find you, you disappear completely.

It's a frustrating cycle.

Perhaps for the first time, he understands how frustrated Johnny must have been those years ago when he avoided him like the plague. You seem to be doing the same thing now, whether you're conscious of it or not.

Part of him is completely fine with it. You stay out of each other's way, avoid bringing up any bad blood. It doesn't absolve his endless questions, however. He can barely focus, even when he's with Johnny, every scar of his that he lets his eyes run over, his thoughts go to yours. How did you get them, who gave them to you, are they still alive?

He could always figure it all out on his own. There was no real need to ask, but he still held a modest amount of respect for you.

He doesn't pay attention as someone zooms right past him. Whoever they were, they were in a hurry, and in his mind, it was no concern of his. More than likely just a recruit late for training, or a soldier forgetting their report.

It's only when he refocuses his eyes and sees Johnny standing in the distance with a look of disbelief on his face, that he turns around to see you zooming away in the distance, rounding a corner when you finally get far enough.

He raises his brows behind his mask, his eyes turning to narrow slightly as he pieces together a situation, which he has no context to.

"They finally get sick of you?" Simon questions broadly, his voice taking a joking tone with the man lingering in the doorway.

Johnny didn't look all that much amused, his eyes continuing to follow you until you were completely out of sight. "They're an interesting one," Johnny mumbles while letting out a sigh.

"Don't like them?"

"Ye kiddin? Ah adore the dark, mysterious, quiet bastards that somehow always enter my life" Johnny's tone comes across as sarcastic, but there's truth to his words. Early on in their relationship, Simon had been convinced that Johnny just had a huge case of saviour complex for him. He still doesn't know if it actually did start out like that, but he can say with certainty it's developed much more complex.

Simon scoffs and shakes his head. "They didn't use to be so..." he trails off, looking back at where you went as if he could catch another glimpse, but you were already gone.

"Moody?" Johnny proposes half serious.

"Distant," Simon corrects him.

Johnny nods. He walks out of the doorway, does a gesture to someone inside, and lets the door close behind him with a soft click. The hallway is plunged back into silence as the two look at each other. Simon has never really liked intense eye contact, but he makes way too much of it on purpose.

"Have ye talked to 'em yet?" Johnny walks over to the nearby wall, leaning against it lazily. He looks tired, worn out, which is a surprise from the lack of meaningful things to do over the last while. It's not completely nonsensical, Simon is well aware of how easily Johnny can be drained from lack of activity. Having something to do is what scratches that needed itch deep in his brain.

"I've tried to." Johnny doesn't look like he believes him. He would like to convince himself that it's true, but a part of him hasn't been searching for a level ground with you either. He has no idea where to start, how to re-establish that familiarity you once shared. It makes all the deep corners of his mind stir.

Johnny gives him a look he knows well. He knows he should get on it, push past any fears and at least get back on a professional standing instead of skittish cats tiptoeing around each other like the other is going to strike.

"Don't look at me like that," Simon says defensively. Johnny puts his hands up mimicking surrender, his teeth flashing through in his smile. The smirk could easily be wiped off his face, but he has no energy to do anything about it.

"Just talk to them already, ah can practically feel the tension three rooms over every time ye two are in each other's vicinity." Johnny shakes his head, before urging Simon on his way.

A droplet of sweat falls into your eyes. It stings and leaves a burning sensation behind. In any other scenario, you'd be fighting yourself to get it quickly wiped away, to get the pain to stop. Your focus is elsewhere. Plastered on the punching bag in front of you.

Each hit sends you further and further into a locked state of mind.

One two one two one two.

It keeps your thoughts occupied. Prying them away from the creeping shadows and their tempting whispers.

Miss it. Miss it.

Hit yourself. Hit yourself.

You close your eyes and continue to count.

One two one two

Bang your face against the wall till the bone inverts.

They're insistent tonight.

You switch up your stance. Circling the bag before taking it on at a different angle. You want to excuse your jittery movements on too much coffee, but you know the reminder of how close you're getting to going near that hell is enough to have you like this.

The more you think about it, the more the small whispers in your ears taunt you. A scent of sulphur and burnt flesh sometimes pass you by. It makes you do a double take in your movements, before you can tell yourself that it's not here. It doesn't make it go away, but if you focus just a little more on the red fabric of the bag instead of the red on your knuckles, then maybe it will tone itself down.

It's a futile attempt. The voices never really listened, no matter how much you answered them or ignored them. Independent of your reaction, they only seemed to want to taunt your mind. You could hardly recall back when your mind would be relatively empty, but the time had been there.

You try to circle the bag again, coming back and forth between the space you're allowed. Your respite comes in the knowledge that nobody would be here to observe your uncertainty. There was hardly anyone at the gym this late at night. The reason you chose it in the first place.

You were rusty, a bit out of shape, but you still had your technique. It had been hammered into you for years, you wouldn't forget it that easily. Each hit to the bag makes it sway slowly around, the massive weight not being very deterred by your punches.

Blood rushes through your veins, your heart pounding in your chest and causing you to breathe unevenly. It's an afterthought to put yourself through small breathing techniques between sets. Every sound that emits in the room plays into your mind, flashes images to the forefront of your brain.

The sound of the wind outside splashing against the windows. The sound of your punches against the bag. The sound of distant footsteps. The sound of a barking dog outside, one that would bear red crosses on white pelt. The sound of low murmuring all around you. The sound of a gunshot.

You whip your head around, choking on your own spit, when you're met by the sight of the man you've been avoiding. Your eyes flicker to the person behind him, made of shadows, smiles and bad omens. It puts an uneven hand on Simon's shoulder.

The sound of your beating heart is loud in your ears, you almost fear he can hear it as well. Your breath is low, uneven, easily excusable to the exercise you were doing instead of the nightmare standing there. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palm. Small droplets of blood trickle in-between your fingers.

He hands you a water bottle. It takes you by surprise, a sudden gesture of kindness. "You look about ready to collapse," his voice is gruff and tired. You bite the inside of your cheek when you accept it.

The cold water is like heaven for your dry throat. Your body graciously accepting the hydration it's clearly needed for a while now. He wasn't totally wrong about your state. You heard the whispers, how you've been looking sick the entire day. Then again when don't you.

"Thank you..." you mumble quietly, taking another gulp from it.

"Yeah..." he looks at you like he's expecting something from you.

You stare at him wearily, trying your damned hardest to discern whatever expression he's making under the mask by his eyes alone. More than anything, you wanted to pull it off of him. You wanted to see him, truly see him.

Would he have stubble? A full-on beard, maybe. Would he have the same hair length as back then, would he have smile lines, wrinkles when he laughs? His voice was deeper, would his laugh sound different now?

"We need to talk," he says your name so quietly, like he's afraid to utter it, as if you'd spring on him like a monstrous creature or haunted ghost.

"We're talking," technically you aren't, but for you this might as well be a conversation already. Heat blooms in your chest, rising unwillingly to your cheeks. Once upon a time that would've been from bashfulness, now it was more of a deep-rooted shame, a fear of your own anticipation for what's to come.

"I'm..." he stutters over his own words, "I'm not entirely sure what went wrong between us."

He pauses and your eyebrows furrow, your mouth quivering with words unspoken.

"Maybe it was something I did, being the reason, we stopped talking but..." your eyes flicker around his mask, the urge turns pained in your chest. He shakes his head. "I hope we can put it past us, for the sake of the mission."

You hand the water bottle back to him. He accepts it, but you can see in his movements how he takes it as rejection. Your eyes are clear on the target he's becoming.

"No, I..." your voice comes out raspy. You clear your throat. "I'm not sure either, what went wrong, but I hold nothing against you...Simon...I guess we just grew apart." It's a big fat lie, but the millisecond of what you'd call relief that shows in his eyes are well worth it.

He exhales his breath loud enough to be noticeable, his form sagging just a little without breaking. "You don't?" when you nod as confirmation, he matches it. "That so...I'd like to start again...I'm curious where you've been all this time, it would be nice to catch up...begin again."

That little voice in your head bristles. A quiet little thing that belongs to a childhood version of you. It wants him to shut up, to stop the pretending front he's putting on. Then there's the other little voice, a voice of reason, one that's still young and malleable. They fight over your decision-making.

He looks down at your hands, notices the feint trail of blood where you split a knuckle. His eyes go small, focusing on it a tad too long before you can pull your hands out of view from him.

Your teeth catch your lip before you make the conscious decision to let it go. "Yeah...we can...try again...from the beginning," the dry laugh you let out doesn't sound convincing, but it seems to be enough for him to buy into. Maybe all you had isn't dead just yet, and when the call comes crashing it all down, you can use the connection for your own burning benefit.

"Right..." there's a note of excitement in his voice, the slightest change in octave and rhythm. "I'll be looking forward to it," he takes his turn to leave the same way he had sneaked in. "Oh, and spider, clean yourself and the equipment up, gonna give yourself a bad reputation like that."

He's being cheeky behind that mask, you can tell. Yet the reawakening of the nickname stirs the softest of a smile to almost make it to your lips.

Your feet hurt. Every step sends another spike of pain up your legs, every swaying movement threatening to send you barrelling forward. You're late. Horribly late. Each breath catches in your throat, and you barely look at the road before you pass it. Only a loud honking alerting to just how close you were to being run over, but you couldn't stop, you had to catch him in time.

You couldn't believe you were almost missing this. Your last chance at seeing him before he leaves for good. The wind hisses in your ears, the cold burns at your uncovered feet. You couldn't believe you had let it come to this.

For the last few weeks, you had been ignoring him, only sharing the most necessary of things. There was no banter between you, no jokes or laughter, and all because you couldn't contain your own anger for his decision.

His stupid, stupid decision.

You couldn't talk him out of going.

He couldn't talk you out of resenting him for it.

The sky is on fire. Rays of the sun blinding you on your way, making you squint your eyes to see. The oranges mixed with yellows makes the clouds look unreal. It's a thing that would have stopped you if it weren't for the agonizing consequences of your decisions weighing on your shoulders. The sky meant nothing to you now.

The graveyard is a welcome sight, the rusted gate creaked open wider than normal. You zoom past it, stumbling over one of the larger rocks scattered about. It propels you forward into the yard, crashing your knees against the gravel. It cuts and stings, but the buzzing under your skin is too loud to notice.

You call out his name. Your voice holding no bounds for your desperation. The only sound that comes back is the crows squawking, the fluttering of wings as they fly far away from you. There's no answer to your call, no familiar voice sounding out to meet you, no warm hand on your shoulder that would pull you into a hug.

He's gone, you realize all too late.

One forgetting mind, two arguments with your mother, and a punishment to follow, all for nothing. You missed your window. You missed the time he'd said he'd wait. He's left and with what, the only knowledge that you're angry with him. He's putting himself in potential danger, and he thinks you resent him.

More than that, he's actually out of reach for you now.

A fear that had infested your bones long before his ugly announcement. A fear that was now no longer just a fear.

Your breathing stutters. Your vision blurs. Blues, oranges, greys and reds, blobs of nothing filling your vision spilling down your cheeks. They might as well freeze in place. Your legs refuse to obey, your body hunches over from every dry heave, every soundless sob and every claw at the ground.

You were alone now.

Yet a hand places itself on your shoulder. It spooks you enough to let out a scream, yet when you whip around, you're only met with a soft smile. The hand is too big to be Simon's, too rough and too scarred. You stare into the eyes of a different man.

A friend. An enemy. A figure you could cling your shattered mind to in your late teen angst.

"You'll be alright," he mouths the words, and you're sure he speaks them, but they never reach you.

"You can meet him again," he stands tall, watches down at your kneeling form with a twist of something that churns your stomach, "I can show you the way to him."

"What?" Your voice is barely audible.

"Through the path to God we may find redemption, and through that path you may find your friend once again, we are all the same under His light."

He tosses a lighter down on the ground next to you.

"Let me show you the path to the light."

You can smell the smoke in the air, taste the ash on your tongue, feel the blood beneath your nails.

It's too late to let go now the hook has sunk into flesh.

The flame is already lit.

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