#but are you not ashamed to take it that far

[overangel]

ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ɢɪʀʟ ᴇᴠɪʟ

❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected reader story.

act 1, act 2

You wake up nearly 10 years in the past and reunite with the one person you could truly call family. Your path is diverging into strange new directions as you discover your abilities. Will this be a dream come true? ❥ TW: su!c!de mention, death of a parent, depression & anxiety, semi-incest

It’s a struggle to force your eyelids open at first. You confuse squeezing them shut with opening them but finally figure it out as they slowly peel open, breaking the crust that once sealed them shut.

A greasy film obscures your vision, turning the ceiling lights into a blurred haze, and when your mind finally boots up, all of your senses wake at the exact same time and overwhelm you instantly.

“Ack!”

A muffled cry vibrated around the ET tube placed down your throat. Your throat constricted around the tube painfully as you fought the instinct to throw up. 

Thankfully, the air it provided kept you from choking as you forced yourself to calm down and will away the colorful spots that filled your vision.

The vitals monitor once beeped lazily but now your pulse was picking up. The pulse oximeter on your left middle finger felt like it weighed a ton and what once was a pleasant numbness when you were unconscious, became an ache that made your whole right arm tremble. 

Your arm, the arm you would have given to save your mother, was surprisingly in one piece. It was strapped over your chest and a splint set your wrist straight.

This was such a vivid memory. Yeah, you were haunted by nightmares of the storm, the phantom pains of your mother’s weight pulling at your arm. The first day at Wayne Manor, never feeling more alone since middle school, the words, the violence, the isolation, those dreams felt so real then too. It’s just that this dream–

‘Wait…’

You’re not supposed to feel pain in dreams and the pounding behind your eyes, the burning on your left hand and the sharp throb that shook your right arm were all too real. But, you couldn’t be alive!

You felt the cool steel in your hand, and the pressure it took to feel the trigger. That satisfying shift of it's weight before— 

Then, it clicked. 

'Oh, come on.'

Your vision finally cleared after several more blinks.

Raising your left hand was a Herculean effort and you probably would’ve bit your lips until they bled if the ventilator wasn’t keeping them parted. Trembling, involuntarily twitching fingers were gingerly raised to your cheek where you felt a thick bandage beside your left eye. 

Beneath would be a scar that the past you would be ashamed of for the rest of her life. Your thoughts drifted to the you from before. She was so silly, you thought of yourself, so skittish, so insecure.

You had been surrounded by beautiful, interesting people, and you were so young back then. If only you had understood comparison was the thief of joy.

The scar you had didn't take away from your natural looks, and you actually found it cute. If you took care of it like you're supposed to, it would become a small crescent that turned inward towards your left eye and have a silvery cast to it when the light hit it just right.

You carefully turned your left hand and took in the bandage that protected your palm. Beneath these bandages were lacerations that would take months to finally knit themselves closed and stop oozing blood occasionally. 

Your hands… Even hardened fighters like Cassandra had such pretty, graceful hands, but the you from the past felt like yours belonged to a medieval blacksmith. Your hands didn't belong to a privileged heiress, or a former girl next door; the deep scars revealed too much pain and the savagery you survived. 

You dropped your hand and exhaled a shuddering huff that irritated your throat. 

‘I’m 16 again.’ You looked up and gazed at the crown mouldings along the wall nearest to you. Your hospital room looked more like a master’s suite that took up far too much space to share a floor with other rooms.

It was so overwhelming back then. Your real family would’ve never been able to afford this despite loving you more than Bruce and his brood were ever capable of in their twisted little hearts.

Your old self should’ve known to enjoy it while it lasted. Bruce would never show you so much favor after your hospitalization besides a credit card tossed across his desk and that was only after Alfred pestered him about you needing to have your own finances like the others.

The blackout blinds were shut tightly making it impossible to tell what time of day it was and you didn’t see a clock around. You tried to adjust by raising your shoulders but realized the extra weight on your shoulders was a thick neck brace holding your neck in place. 

You don’t remember how deeply the wire cut through your neck in your past life, but you knew it was a miracle that kept you from losing your head and your voice. 

After your injuries were accounted for, the silence set in and your ears started ringing. 

You heard blood rushing in your ears, and felt wet leaves slapping your face. 

Dirt was blown up your nose and stung your eyes. Your clothes were cold and soaking wet, clinging to your body like a second skin. So much noise. There was so much noise from the sirens blaring, to the winds, to the crashing waves and hale that pounded any roof still above water. 

A woman’s voice cut through it all, begging her only child, the only reason she breathed, “Please, let me go..” 

She struggled at first. She tried to make you drop her. She begged at first, and then when she could tell by the look in your eyes that you wouldn’t listen–that this was the one thing you would not obey your mother over–she demanded you let go. 

She hollered as loudly as she could over the winds, begging, pleading, scolding, trying to talk sense into you. “You won't make it!” The gate you clung to couldn’t support both your weights for much longer.

“I've lived my life!” And you haven’t lived any of yours yet, baby.

She was ready to go. She left you when a pipe came soaring through the air as if it was a javelin thrown by Phrastor himself. 

You would like to think she died immediately. You didn’t know how long it took for her fingers to go slack. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes of agony. Still, you just didn’t know how to let go. 

Maybe that was your problem.

All of the noises blended together until it doubled over and became silent again. “Please, mom. Don't go.”

It felt like your ears were filled with water.

You couldn’t ignore the truth. If you had been brought back to this point in time, it meant that they were already gone. 

She was already gone. 

Tears blurred your vision and a thick sob made your throat spasm around the ET tube. Why couldn’t you have gone back further? At least far enough to warn mom and everyone to leave town! A day—even 2 hours—would’ve been enough if you all just hit the road! 

Even with this one in a million, no–one in a trillion chance–you still weren’t allowed to be truly happy.

So many times you wished you could give Bruce Wayne’s life for your mother’s. He was worth billions of dollars, but your mama was worth more than a billion of him.

The only thing you had ever wanted wasn’t their love or even a bit of tolerance. You just wanted to feel your mother’s arms around you one last time. 

You would’ve preferred a moment in her arms instead of a chance at a new life without her. Your actual desires were so simple.

Wealth? You couldn’t touch a single penny. Affluence? No one truly liked you. They liked your new surname, but it didn’t matter if the person attached to it lived or died. Privilege? You weren’t some WASP, and wouldn’t fit in at the country club even if you were invited.

Whatever was out there truly loved fucking with you. 

Tears trailed down your face while thinking of your mother and left drying tracks. You sniffed up the mucus that threatened to drip down your lip and forced your mind to go quiet.

You had to pull yourself out of this slump before you fell into depression. You tried to lean your head back against the suffocatingly plush pillow and thought, willing a thank you to your mom, your friends, family, acquaintances, and everyone you lost. 

“Please guide me.”

You remained slouched against the plush pillows and closed your eyes. You would need any peace you could get before stepping on the battlefield if you really did go back to the past. 

You only shut your eyes for a second when you opened them again to a foreign plane. You stood on a desolate land lightly shrouded in drifting mist, without a single spot of green in sight. The earth you stood on was tightly packed dirt and any grass you saw was yellow and clearly dehydrated by how sharp the blades were against your bare feet when you tried to take a step. 

Once again, you felt pain in what should’ve been a dream. Here, you weren’t wearing your bandages and there weren’t neck or arm braces to restrict you. You flexed your fingers and balled your fists, admiring the dexterity you once took for granted and the healed scars that lined your wrists and palms in an unsymmetrical but captivating tapestry. 

You touched the scars around your neck and cleared your throat, pleased that there was no pain. You spoke a few words and teared up at the sound of your own voice. “Is that me?” 

It was like reuniting with an old friend. 

You braved the pricks and stabs of dead grass and nettles and walked the terrain you could see amid the mist. You were completely alone here, the only sound being the gentle trickle of a black brook that led nowhere. 

Retracing your steps, you came to the only other landmark, a dead tree with skinny twisting branches that reached to the sky as if pleading to some divine figure for mercy. You plopped down against the base and immediately regretted it when pain shot up your tailbone when you landed on a gnarled root.

However, the pain was quickly forgotten when a sheet of parchment paper fell from above and into your lap. 

“One hour in the real world = one day in the pocket dimension”

It looked freshly written in curling violet font. The ink didn’t bleed on the fine archival paper, and when you looked up to see who dropped it all you saw was a grey, cloudy sky. You didn’t like the clouds. It reminded you of before the storm touched ground.

You shook away the thoughts that threatened to sink icy fingers into your heart, and flipped the paper to look for more instructions.

That’s helpful but how will you keep up with time if there’s no–oh. You looked at your forearm and saw that there was periwinkle writing gently ebbing with your pulse. ‘23 min’

Oh. 

Thanks.

You leaned against the tree trunk and sighed. Honestly, you weren’t really this calm and cool. In your past life, you literally lived in a constant state of anxiety from the moment you woke in the morning until the second sleep finally claimed you and the nightmares began.

It got to the point when there wasn’t an anti-anxiety medication on the market you hadn’t tried and fear would root you to the spot and prevent you from physically stepping through your bedroom door for days. 

So, why were you handling this all so well? If you really went back to in time to after the flood, after you recovered you’d be going back to hell. You could recall every humiliating memory in your last life in chronological order and you were going back to the place where your future diverged into darkness. Why were you so calm?

You looked up at the bleak sky of this so-called “pocket dimension” and sighed. 

You willed the memories that haunted every waking moment in your past life to the forefront. Even if it’s a dream, you couldn't shirk this chance if you had time to prepare. You lived with so many regrets until it didn’t feel like living anymore.

You laid out a mental map, In the past, you woke from the coma after 2 months, and remained in the hospital for another 2. In that time, the only person who visited you had been Alfred Pennyworth who tried to keep a concise schedule for you, despite having higher priorities. 

Physical therapy was hell, and you weren’t able to physically speak for 3 months, but didn’t actually speak for 6 because of selective mutism. Living in the manor left you too afraid to speak.

You grumbled in agitation, mostly at yourself.

When Alfred brought you back, you had only been standing in the foyer for a minute before a kick from Damian Wayne swept your feet from under you and on your still injured right wrist. You writhed and cried from the shock and pain, and only Alfred helped you up.

Richard Grayson attempted a half-hearted “You okay there?” with a pitied furrowed brow, and concern that didn’t reach his baby blues. 

Bruce Wayne seemed disgusted and Cassandra Cain lost interest.

No one gets a second chance at a first impression and that was how yours went down.

“I can’t let that happen again.” But how could you avoid an actually trained assassin? Distress was taking root and locking your limbs in place. Your heart stuttered and air didn’t come easily anymore. How could you fight against someone like that?

Then, an expanse of tatami mats appeared over the dried grass and a figure stood motionlessly in the center of it. Naturally, you were startled and scooted back as if you were trying to force yourself as far into the tree as possible. 

You quieted your breath and stared at the figure trying to get a good look from a safe-ish distance. The lone figure was shrouded in darkness, his back facing the source of light in this realm, a source you couldn’t locate behind the grey clouds. Something about it seemed so familiar.

Dread iced your spine, but astonishment spurred you on. It looked like Damian! 

You climbed to your feet and stumbled forward. It looked exactly like he did when you first met when he was just 13 years old. His hair was spiked and his eyes were menacing and hateful. It was like looking at the real thing and you feared it might actually be. What were the odds you shared this place with the demon?

But something else came to mind. You were worried about being attacked on your first day and not being able to do anything about it, and now here were some tatami mats and the Damian you remember from that time. 

When you needed help, a solution appeared. It was just up to you to use the tools provided. 

‘I’ve seen him fight before.’ The double took a fighting stance, ‘I’ve experienced his skills firsthand.’ And had scars and bruises to show for it.

‘I could read him…’ The double kicked out and you stumbled out of the way. The toes of his boot skimmed your shin and pain erupted up the bone. You didn’t get out of the way completely and dropped clutching your leg in pain, but you had seen it coming, and acted!

You looked up at the double who glared down at you disdainfully. You knew his every move and the skills he’d accumulate along the way. If you really tried…

You staggered to your feet and imitated a stance you saw him drop into hundreds of times. Your eyes met the double’s emerald ones. Eyes almost as green and vile as the Lazarus pit, and just as hateful as those of the real deal’s. You unconsciously held your breath. Those eyes were the scariest things about him in your opinion, and you’d have to get used to looking them all in the eye if you were going to change.

“Again.” You commanded and the double attacked.

You opened your eyes after a week of training in the pocket dimension to it only being 7 hours of sleep in the real world. Well, it looked like you had a restful sleep but your mind and spirit had been wide awake for 7 days straight. You had spent that time training with and studying the double that kicked your butt more times than you could count. 

However, you were getting up easier, predicting every move, and your body was reacting faster. You had caught the double off guard a few times, forcing him to rethink his next moves and counterattack.

Unfortunately, there was a tradeoff. You were sore. Even your blood ached. 'I could use some codeine...' You blinked the sleep from your eyes to find a nurse’s ample chest hovering over your face as she reached to refill your medications.

You quietly stared at the welcomed sight until she pulled back on her heels after completing her task. Her eyes dropped down to glance at you before leaving when she saw you staring and screamed.

“Oh! D-doctor, she’s awake!”

And your ears worked, too.

You counted at least 6 different medical professionals in your room at once and distractedly answered questions by tapping your left pointer finger once for yes and twice for no as your eyes flitted from one figure to the next. They reminded you of busy bees buzzing around a hive. 

You had feeling in all of your extremities and although it hurt enough to bring tears to your eyes, you could lift your right hand the slightest centimeter. 

Dazed from the overstimulation, you blinked sheepishly when you felt something in the air change, and in your heart, you knew why. 

Turning your torso to face the door because you couldn’t turn your neck alone, you saw the man who cared for you when you had no one else.

He was as classy as ever, black jacket perfectly tailored, and pressed pants above freshly polished oxfords. 

His posture was straight and shoulders were back but his composure slipped the slightest fraction and his lips trembled when your eyes finally met.

Your breathing hitched and heart rate spiked, the heart monitor beeping rapidly. At this moment, your limbs didn’t feel like they weighed a hundred tons, and you were starting to pull your legs up and twisting to get out of bed. You’d fall if you tried to take a single step out of it but that was far from your mind. What’s a little more pain?

You reached both hands towards Alfred, eyes shimmering with tears, and the sight struck something deep within him. 

You two had never met before and all that he knew of you came from secondhand accounts as he researched your loved ones and helped with funerary arrangements and settlements for those affected by the Wayne Enterprise Flood Disaster.

He didn’t know you, but for some inexplicable reason, he felt like you’d met before. He knew you. And, to his astonishment, he had even loved you. 

He was crossing the suite in strides and at your bedside before you could fall. His hands were gently lowering your own and settling you into bed as if he had done it for you hundreds of times. 

“Careful, dear girl.” 

The last bit of your composure cracked and you threw your arms around his slender waist, the wires patched onto them were a hindrance and tugged the tape on your skin but you squeezed him as tightly as you could in your weakened state. 'I didn't mean to.' You cried your apologies deep in your heart, 'I didn't really want to.'

He was dumbstruck as you sobbed into his suit jacket, but slowly, he lowered his composure and gently embraced you as well.

Nurse Patrice, the nurse you had taken a shine to since you woke up, wiped her eyes quickly and went to make herself scarce. “They’re thinking they can take the ET tube out in a few days. She’s been doing very well breathing on her own.”

Alfred looked up at the nurse, he hadn’t noticed her at all since all of his attention had been devoted to you, and smiled his gentlemanly smile that seemed to set women’s hearts at ease.

“When she’s cleared in a week, she can start PT.”

You hiccupped around the ventilator and Alfred rubbed soothing circles between your shoulder blades. Nurse Patrice gazed at your trembling back and quietly left you two alone. She would make sure no one bothered you for a while. 

Alfred tenderly smoothed down your hair with one hand as your sobs quieted. You hadn’t had a proper shower, much less washed your hair, since the storm over a couple of weeks ago and you wouldn’t be able to care for your hair until your hands were healed. 

He carefully and discreetly untangled small knots at some of your ends, and made a note to do some research on hair care so he could help you take care of yours. 

“Are you feeling better, young Miss?”  

You nodded your head into his vest, suddenly too shy to show your face.

He pulled out a pristine handkerchief and lightly wiped your cheeks. 

He didn’t mean to say it, but he wasn’t entirely himself while he was in your presence. Maybe he was a different version of himself, and maybe he liked this version of him better than the one he was before he met you. 

“You'll never be alone again.”

You finally released Alfred after you were sure he wouldn’t leave your sight. He tried to hide his grin at you not wanting him to go, before politely pulling Nurse Patrice aside for a private chat.

A good cry was really what you needed, but you hadn’t expected that you’d be so overcome by emotion.

Yes, you loved Alfred and honestly he was the only person keeping you going in your past life, other than the fact you knew your mother would want you to live.

You had cut all ties with the living world the last few years of your life. Friends and acquaintances became strangers and you were too ashamed to reach out to your extended family. 

You succumbed to depression, but Alfred was the only earthly tie you truly regretted severing. He was your strength in your mother’s stead. The only thing you regretted was breaking his heart when you ended it all.

Everything felt right with him near. So peaceful that you turned on the mounted flat screen to a telenovela and watched ridiculously attractive people traverse equally ridiculous situations.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Alfred and Nurse Patrice looking at his phone as she showed him something and he nodded his head in understanding. They were hitting it off, you grinned. Such a charmer, Mr. Pennyworth.

You were in a coma for around 2 months in your last life and that was enough time for Bruce Wayne to do most of the damage control he needed. He acted fast, paying for funerals, sending kids to college, paying mortgages and for living arrangements so that the people who lost everything, citizens who were unfairly branded as “refugees” in their own country, could try to live again. 

Influencers, celebrities, and anyone with an opinion continued to drag him but things were dying down smoothly. Wealth and being a good-looking white man was a hell of a cheat code. The world was moving on without you, and 2 months was more than enough time for Batman’s brood to put you out of mind. 

You blinked owlishly at the thought and the apathy it brought. that thought didn’t hurt at all, when it would’ve–actually it had–cut you down before.

When you were an actual teenager without a friend in the world, the thought of being forgotten scared you to death but as a mentally grown woman who had hit her lowest low in one life already, you were at peace. 

In fact, it’d be nice if they never noticed you were there at all. It would make pawning off some of the heirlooms and portraits around the place all too easy. You wondered if you could learn where all the cameras were…Alfred caught the devious glint in your eye and raised his brows. 

He walked to your bedside and took a seat in the armchair beside you. You opened your hand and he took it without having to be asked. 

There were so many things foreign to Alfred. 

Yes, Bruce had adoptive daughters, but that didn’t mean Alfred did. Yet, for some indiscernible reason he felt like you were his. 

Bruce was your father, but you were his daughter, and he'd do everything you deserved like learning how to care for your hair.

Your texture was so different from his own, but the wheels were turning and he was looking forward to starting the routines Nurse Patrice put him on.

Your eyes crinkled in a smile, content in the silence.  

“You gave everyone quite a scare when you were first admitted,” He couldn’t get to the hospital immediately but he knew you had emergency surgery for your neck. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say you were nearly decapitated, and it should’ve been impossible for the doctors to save your life and your voice. Yet, the impossible was made possible and Alfred would make sure that the research institute would never lack funding.

“But you’re recovering even faster than expected.” You had woken up within 2 weeks compared to the 2 months of the past.

By ‘everyone,’ he meant the medical staff. To his horror, Bruce seemed ambivalent to your condition as long as you didn't die. Sticking you in a private room in an exclusive hospital only available to millionaires was partially for the care, but mostly so he could ensure no paparazzi would find you and cause him more trouble.

You tried squeezing his hand with the fingers on your left hand, the hand that despite being wrecked by the barbed wire, retained almost all of its nerve function. You turned back to the tv to watch the telenovela, but Alfred’s eyes rested on your profile, almost studying you and committing every little pore to memory.

His heart was unsettled, there was this growing fear that he could lose you, as if he already had before. But how, when this is your first meeting?

Being near you brought him so much joy, but his hands also trembled as if to anticipate you falling to pieces. He didn't know why this was, but that only made him want to keep you close and protect you.

Turning his thoughts towards more positive things, he knew just what gift to bring you tomorrow, and was already looking forward to the way your face would light up. 

Only the world's greatest detective could notice the way Alfred's left eyebrow was creased the most miniscule bit in disgust. The greatest detective would if he was paying attention. 

“So, how are your classes, Tim?” Bruce spoke from his seat at the head of the table. “Everything's good. Boring, but good.”

‘imagine how bored Young Mistress Y/n is.’ Alfred's expression was perfectly schooled but his eyes were so over it. 

Bruce nodded his head, “And what about you, Damian?” The young boy scowled. “It seems that just anyone can become an educator these days.” He let loose a rant while Alfred’s gaze burned a hole into the wall opposite him. 

He considered these family dinners a much deserved respite from the fighting, but it didn't feel whole after you came into his life. It would never feel like a family dinner to him unless you were seated among them, telling your father how your classes were going and joking with your siblings. His fist tightened beneath the napkin he held, didn't anyone else feel something missing? 

Could they eat any slower? Alfred covertly checked his pocket watch. Visiting hours were over and although you had no trouble with him leaving and waved sweetly before he left, he could imagine fresh tears in your eyes like when you first saw him. You were there all alone, practically hidden away.

It was a good thing he charmed the director and charge nurses so that he'd be able to stay past visiting hours all he wanted. Unfortunately, his duties as a butler still came first, and so, he waited for the clinking of cutlery and meaningless chatter to cease. 

“Alfred?”

The butler's eyes refocused and landed on Bruce's face who was staring at him from his chair at the head of the table in concern. “Is everything alright?”

Was everything alright? Should he be asking him that? Shouldn't he be asking about you? 

Alfred’s countenance doesn't betray a single thought, “I'm more than alright, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice was clear and strong and caught everyone's attention. “My young Mistress has woken up from her coma earlier than expected and she's already hitting recovery milestones.” The pride in his voice couldn't be repressed.

Damian frowned and Tim tilted his head. Cassandra looked into space while trying to recall anything about a lady in a coma. 

Duke, bless his heart, didn't know, but tried to be supportive. “That's good!”

Alfred turned to him, “Isn't it, Master Duke? Mobility is limited but she's completely of sound mind and she's quite charming.” He smiled fondly before realizing he had to rein it in.

“Great, but who are you talking about?” Stephanie snorted and looked around the table for an explanation, thinking she was the only one out of the loop. 

“Master Bruce's daughter.”

The room went cold.

You were a topic they all danced around, carefully evading. Your reveal hadn't been a positive thing for the family at all; on the contrary, even thinking of or hearing your name would put Bruce and Tim in the state of fatigue they went through when all hell broke loose. Discovering you would be a bad memory for years to come. 

“Oh.” Duke thought about what he had seen on social media the last couple of weeks. You didn't have an online presence but you had been a hot topic when the flood happened. 

Bruce Wayne's daughter was in a lower income area when Wayne enterprises moved in with plans to raise the town’s textile industry back from the dead. We all know how that ended. 

Old friends and teachers spoke of you fondly, and it was clear that many were furious on your behalf. To many, Bruce was a deadbeat who didn't know shit.

Some social media posts weren't the same as getting to know you, but it laid the groundwork and he was curious about you and felt bad for what you’d gone through. He had a feeling no one else shared his sentiments.

“What? Daughter?” Stephanie gripped the dining chair’s armrests and turned to Bruce, ready to go in on him for being a playboy and falling for another assassin milf when it dawned on her. 

The flood, the media, Tim and Bruce's sleepless nights. ‘Oh, so she's alive.’ she simply thought to herself and lost interest.

“That's the least the medical institute can do after all I'm paying it.”

Alfred felt venom rise up his throat. When had the money mattered? 

“I will be visiting Young Mistress Y/n tomorrow—”

Alfred Pennyworth never stepped above his station as dutiful butler, but he had never been cut off before either. Someone changed the subject, most likely Dick who had an insane ability for shifting attention like it was a meta power.

The topic of interest changed and conversation flowed into the mundane but it was a farce of familial normalcy. Alfred's jaw clenched.

To be continued~

@c4xcocoa , @rythespy

Future installments will have semi-incest so please let me know if you want to be untagged!

[skyracha]

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Chan

You’d burst right into his room, and when you ask him for help he doesn’t even question it. He gets right up and gets everything ready without a word. He’d grab towels and roll up his sleeves as he tells you to widen your stance. Bro wouldn’t hesitate to get in there, he’s not shy nor is he going to make this awkward, cuz it isn’t awkward for him. He’s the type to reposition you so he can get a clear view, but he eventually gets it out with a proud smile. He tosses it and grabs a new one for you out of HIS bathroom closet. “I keep extra, when you have a sister you learn what to have on hand.”

Lee Know

This man is going to make you feel awkward with how nonchalant he is about it. He doesn’t really care, and he’s going to be in and out in record speed (it’s borderline concerning how quickly he removes it). He tosses it out without a word and leaves you laying on the bathroom floor, bare for anyone who dare walk in before he returns with a pad and some sweats. “Why don’t we try this so we don’t lose it huh?”

Changbin

Man acts like he’s so cool about it but his hands are shaking as soon as he kneels in front of you on the counter. He’s intimidated and also breaths so heavy. He exclaims when he finds it and removes it so slow like you’re a game of operation. He wraps it in toilet paper before handing it to you to throw away as if he wasn’t just knuckle deep fishing it out. “Do you need me to get you another one? I don’t have any on hand though.”

Hyunjin

Sits and processes when you ask him, but then he simply asks how you’d be most comfortable doing it. He’d let you lay on his bed with towels everywhere, I MEAN EVERHWHERE (there’s literally one under ur head as if it’ll get all the way up there). He makes conversation while he swiftly gets it out and throws it out, giving you a new pair of underwear prepped with a pad. “I recognize your traits for this time of the month, so I keep some stuff on hand in case of emergencies.”

Han

He’s FLABBERGASTED. Like blinks at you. He quite literally asks if he needs to go get tongs from the kitchen. But once you explain that’s not necessary he’s rushing around to get the materials and even grabs gloves. He takes a second to realize where he needs to be looking and what to look for, but when he finds it, it’s out and he basically tosses it into the trash from across the bathroom. “How long until you start bleeding on the towels? I don’t have anything you need in here but I can run fast if you tell me where to go find some.”

Felix

Let’s be honest- he’s the one knocking on the bathroom door after you dissapeared for a few minutes too many. He walks in, kneels down and immediately knows the protocol. He’s not ashamed but instead sympathetic towards your situation, smiling at you so sweetly as he grabs baby wipes/wet towels and a new one for you. He even offers some comfy pants. “Are you sure you want to stay in those leggings? I can get a pair of my fluffy pajama pants, those seem comfier for this scenario.”

Seungmin

Bro acts so disgusted when you ask. Makes faces and groans as if you just asked him to eat his least favorite food. But once he gets in there he’s quick to fix the problem as if it’s any other day. He even goes as far to throw all the towels and ur pants and underwear in a laundry basket while giving you fresh clothes and a new tampon. “You think I haven’t been waiting for your dumb ass to lose a tampon? Take the clothes and freshen up while I go start a load of laundry.”

I.N.

Poor baby is clueless and flustered. Offers that maybe one of his hyungs would be of more help, but gives it a try anyway when you explain you feel most comfortable with him helping you. You have to walk him through what to do and what to grab to protect whatever surface you’ll be on. He thinks ahead and asks where your pads are so he can have one ready for you when the tampon comes out. He’s stuttering the whole time, but he gets the job done. He offers to settle his awkwardness by going out for ice cream or something of the sort. “How about you and I go get a sweet treat or something? You’re prone to a sweet craving and I feel like I need a reward.”

[genderkoolaid]

this is a genuine question-- not trying to bait. you seem reasonable and knowledgeable and opinionated about lots of issues.

what's your opinion/ stance on paraphilias? how do you see the distinctions between "kink" "fetish" and "paraphilia"? and any other takes you have about "harmful" paraphilias that you don't see discussed often, etc.

Some general thoughts on the topic:

I am strongly against the idea of thoughts or feelings alone bearing moral weight. I think the idea that they do does far more harm than good, as it puts pressure on people to micromanage their internal experiences through shame, and that prevents them from being able to have a calm and reasonable understanding of their own thoughts and feelings. When you aren't afraid of having thoughts or feelings, it is much easier to identify how they influence and make choices accordingly.

All of these categories are made up by people, so I don't think there necessarily are distinctions. IIRC "paraphilia" is a specifically psychiatric term. As people have discussed elsewhere, what is considered normal sexuality vs abnormal sexuality varies heavily across cultures, and I'm not super concerned with making a clear cut distinction for every experience. I think all things considered that the medical model of "it's not a clinical issue unless it's causing problems in your life & harm to yourself or others" is a good enough way of approaching things.

I think a lot of people conflate having certain thoughts or feelings with having impulse control issues, and assume that people with certain thoughts or feelings must be incapable (or will inevitably fail at) exercising their free will in navigating those feelings. Which ironically can create a self-fulfilling cycle where people get scared or ashamed of their feelings and never practice relating to them in healthy ways, so they do feel out of control. And for people with impulse control issues, they deserve support and assistance in that.

I choose to believe and act as though everyone has inherent worth and dignity on an existential level, and that cannot be changed or destroyed. No kind of sexual desire makes someone less of a person, or less deserving of being taken seriously and compassionately as a person.

Harm, both doing and receiving it, is an inevitable part of life and we will never get rid of this. The best way to deal with the inevitability of harming and being harmed is to build and maintain practices that help is navigate healing those harms.

I guess my "opinion on paraphilias" is that to a large degree it's none of my business what goes on in other people's minds, that shame and the model of thoughtcrime does more harm than good to everyone, people should be allowed to engage in weird sex stuff alone or with others who are consenting without having to justify themselves to strangers. Sex stuff and relates issues can be scary and complicated but we have to be brave about it and come up with ways of navigating these issues that are best for everyone, holistically.

[halfbloodwhore]

Electric Touch - Part III (Eddie x Female Reader - 18+)

"I was thinking just one time Maybe the stars align And maybe I call you mine."

Read Part I Here Read Part II Here

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗. ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

Eddie was not a religious man. He had never set foot in a church and the closest he'd ever come to praying was during Hellfire meetings when he'd beg the dice gods for a good roll.

However, upon hearing those seven words tumble out of your mouth, he was almost certain that he had died and gone to heaven.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly," he said after a beat of silence. You couldn't help but giggle at the blush creeping across Eddie's face. But, as the light laugh escaped your lips, Eddie's face crumpled, leaving you confused. He looked back down at the tray and paper he had in front of him and resumed rolling.

"Are you okay?" You asked, giving his forearm a squeeze. Eddie tensed in response to the gesture.

"Yeah, I'm cool."

"I'm sorry, was that too forward? Oh my god, that's so embarrassing. Please forget I said anything." You quickly removed your hand from Eddie's arm and used it to cover your face.

Eddie let the nearly formed, but still mostly incomplete, blunt drop which caused it to unravel. "Wait, was that a serious question?"

Peeking at him from between your fingers, you asked timidly, "Did you want it to be a real question?"

Eddie allowed himself to fully take in your appearance. He'd never had the opportunity to sit so closely to you before and, somehow, you were even more breathtaking up close. He was enamored by the little details about you he'd never noticed before, like the faint freckles that were peppered across the bridge of your nose, and the little white scar above your left eyebrow.

Eddie thought back to the countless Friday nights he'd spent alone in his room with only his right hand and the thought of you in a short skirt to keep him company. He was already at a sub-zero in the Hawkins social rankings, so what did he really have to lose?

"Of course I did," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's you."

"What does that mean?" You asked, your voice just as soft as his.

"I mean, you're probably the prettiest girl in Hawkins. Everyone wants you."

You sat in stunned silence for a moment. Your heart was beating so wildly that you were sure Eddie must have been able to hear it thumping against your chest. After collecting your thoughts, you stood up and leaned your entire body across the picnic table until your face was nearly touching Eddie's. Before you could change your mind, you cupped his face in your hands and pressed your lips against his.

Eddie's lips were soft against yours and he tasted faintly of tobacco and mint. The kiss was gentle, yet you couldn't ignore the surge of heat in your core.

You forced yourself to break the kiss even though every cell in your body seemed to be crying out for more. "You didn’t answer my question, Munson,” you murmured against his lips.

“No,” he said breathlessly. “I have not.”

Under normal circumstances Eddie may have felt ashamed about admitting to the most popular girl at Hawkins that he had never been touched by another girl before, but his mind was far too clouded by desire for him to care at the present moment.

“We should do something about that.”

Tucking his suddenly hard dick in the waistband of his jeans, Eddie rose from the picnic bench and guided you to his van. Once you had both climbed into the backseat and the door was slammed shut, your lips were back on his. The kiss was no longer gentle. You kissed him with a fervor, finally satiating the burning hunger you’d developed for the Freak.

You pulled your lips from his and trailed kisses down his jaw before sucking lightly on his neck. Your hand found its way to Eddie’s hard on and you rubbed him through his jeans, eliciting a deep moan.

Unable to wait any longer, you slid off the seat until your knees were resting on the floor of Eddie’s van and then hurriedly undid the buttons of his jeans. You wrapped your hand around Eddie’s cock and finally freed him from the confines of his pants. The foreign feeling of a hand that didn’t belong to him grabbing his erection was electrifying and Eddie thought he was going to burst.

He took some shaky breaths to steady himself and found himself praying that he’d last long enough to truly savor the experience of his cock in your mouth.

Starting from the base, you slowly dragged your tongue up his length before circling it around his tip at an agonizing pace, lapping up all the precum seeping from it.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie moaned as his head fell back against the seat. His reaction caused your pussy to clench and you just knew that your panties would be soaked by the time you were finished working his cock.

You wrapped your lips delicately around his tip and began lightly sucking. Eddie’s cock twitched in response as if it was begging you for more. Without warning you dropped your head down, taking as much of Eddie into your mouth as you could. The tip of Eddie’s cock pressed against your throat and you couldn’t help but moan at the sensation.

Eddie whimpered as your moan reverberated around his cock. He wanted to look down and see just how pretty you looked sucking him off, but the pleasure of his first blowjob had rendered him powerless and all he could do was pathetically whimper your name as your head bobbed up and down his cock expertly.

Sooner than he would’ve liked, he felt his balls pull up tight against his body. You could feel the moment his cock went taut in your mouth and you shoved him down your throat just as it began twitching. His cum shot against the back of your throat as Eddie came harder than he ever had before.

Once you were sure that he had nothing more to give, you pulled off him and took a deep breath. Eddie forced himself to look down at you through half lidded eyes. He wasn’t sure of proper post-blowjob etiquette, but it felt wrong to not acknowledge the life changing experience you had just bestowed upon him, so he said the only coherent sentence his brain was able to string together: “Thank you for that.”

“Anytime, Munson.” You said with a wink.

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗. ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read through Electric Touch. It honestly made my day every time I received a notification that someone liked or reblogged a previous part. This started as a silly little idea I came up with while listening to Spotify and the fact that it became something others also enjoyed is very neat 💜

[sweetonsugden]

Questions Misha has asked fans: (from the GISH 'Radical Self Acceptance' questionnaire)

What do you wish you could change about the person you are right now — not superficial things, or situational things, but about the way you interact with the world or a facet of your personality?

What are you ashamed of? What worries you?

What is the hardest thing for you to accept about the person you are right now?

What embarrasses you? Why?

Do you do anything that you pretend to value, but really isn’t all that important to you?

What was your strangest life experience?

Name something you used to like, but don't enjoy anymore. What replaced it, and what changed? 

Are you happy with how you spend most of your waking hours? Why or why not?

Who do you want to be?

What characteristics are important to you as a marker of a life well-lived? Do you embody them right now?

Over the past 5 years, a lot has happened and you’ve changed. What are three examples of ways you’ve grown, and three obstacles you still haven’t conquered?

What was one time when you overcame a seemingly insurmountable obstacle? Tell the story and what you learned.

Describe your “perfect” life. How does it differ from your current life?

He has also posted (unsolicited) naked pictures of himself online on at least three occasions. And the banana condom picture recently. He also has answered questions on Tumblr before. And responded to one ask with a suggestive poem he wrote about sucking the pips out of a watermelon. He also showed up uninvited to the AO3 event at Comic Con one year. And posted a celebratory tweet when Destiel reached over 100,000 fics on the site. He has joked on stage about BDSM and porn and "full penetration" with his co-stars. And of course there was the incident when he felt it was okay to publicly ask a room full of strangers if they were "introverts, extroverts or bisexual".

He has publicly shared stories about his experiences of poverty, parental neglect, homelessness, divorce, sex, threesomes, drugs.

But we should stick to asking him about what it was like working on Supernatural?

So, what you’re saying is that someone who controls what THEY feel like talking about, posting about, discussing, ON THEIR OWN TERMS automatically means it’s open season on whatever anyone wants to throw at them? Ah, I see. So… let’s say a woman wants to discuss her personal history and or make sexual innuendos about her own life and experiences means that anyone who pays money to talk to her can asked how hard she likes to take it? Because, I mean she did open the door to that conversation right?

Or, let’s say someone writes a book about their life story and you you pay money for the book, that means that you can get up at a book signing and ask them to share more trauma stuff because you’re curious? I mean, you did pay good money and all.

I guess you believe that if you pay money you get to dictate what an actor talks about because you own them for those five minutes that you have their attention, right?

As far as those questions from GISH, it sounds like a questionnaire based specifically on the topic of Radical Self Acceptance. Tell me, though….what does “describe something traumatic you’ve experienced” have to do with Supernatural or Castiel? What does asking Misha take a photo of your kissing his hipbones have to do with Supernatural or Castiel?

The regular panels ARE ABOUT SUPERNATURAL. He talks about all the more serious personal things about himself in a private show that doesn’t have a q&a and which he requests no one repeats what’s shared. There’s a difference.

Bottom line is, people like you want to compare someone being in control of what they share and what they do/discuss on their terms with believing you own someone because you paid some money for their time. That because he does what he feels like with his own information sharing, you get to treat him like he owes you something more.

If you think you’re going to convince me it’s the same thing, you are completely wasting both your time and mine.

[angeliccss]

Her Turn

Pairing: Avis Amberg/Reader

Words: 2.9k

Summary: You’re her secretary—professional, quiet, and far too obsessed. Every time Avis Amberg brings a boy into her office, you lock the door and pretend you don’t care. But when he fails to satisfy her, she turns to you instead—and she doesn’t ask twice.

Warnings: Oral, Voyeurism? (Listening to Avis getting fucked), Masturbation, Office Sex, Fingering.

AO3

You’re not supposed to hear it.

You’re not supposed to listen, either—but when it starts, when the gas station boys are ushered into her office with those tight smiles and heavy lashes, you already know what’s coming.

Avis’s door clicks shut with just the faintest pause before the bolt slides. You barely breathe. You’re seated at your desk just beyond the inner office, close enough to hear the low hum of her voice—but too far to pretend it’s innocent. You never see her do it. You only ever hear.

First, it’s the soft shuffle of fabric, then a strained inhale. Her chair creaks. One of the boys murmurs something low and boyish. Then—

A sharp gasp. Avis’s. Muffled, but unmistakable.

You pause mid-keystroke, heart thudding behind your ribs like it’s trying to break free. This always happens mid-afternoon, when the studio’s gone quiet and the light turns gold through the frosted window. When no one’s around to knock or ask questions.

It started a week ago. The first time it happened, you didn’t know what to do—sit there and type? Cough to remind them you existed? But instead, you froze, pulse fluttering as her moans came soft and broken through the wall, as wet sounds filled the gaps between her breath.

You wanted to be disgusted. Ashamed. Something righteous.

But instead, your thighs pressed together, lips parted, hands trembling as you reached down beneath your desk. Just once, you told yourself. Just to take the edge off. Just because no one would know.

Now it’s a ritual.

When you hear her heels knock lightly against the desk legs, when you hear her purr and sigh, when one of the boys grunts low and desperate like he's barely holding on—your breath catches. Your fingers drift lower. You lock the outer office door, just in case. Slide your chair back a little, skirt hitched up just enough, fingers already damp from anticipation.

It’s wrong. You know that. She's your boss. She's Avis Amberg. She hands you scripts and signs checks and tells you to bring her another drink when she's annoyed. But when she's back there with them, gasping out little noises, voice husky and desperate—you forget all that.

Because you want her. You want to be the one on your knees. You want her hand fisting in your hair, not theirs.

You press your palm flat against your clothed heat, rocking against it slowly as the sounds grow louder. Avis is no longer subtle—she knows what she’s doing. And you think—you think she knows you’re listening.

Today, it’s more intense. There’s a slap of skin, a cry, and then her voice, wrecked and low, begging for something filthy you can barely make out. You suck in a breath and slide your hand under your skirt, biting down on your lip as your fingers find slick warmth.

You moan—quiet, barely-there—but it slips out before you can stop it. Your body arches in your seat. You grind down against your fingers, hips rocking in time with the rhythm of what you hear through the wall.

“Oh, fuck, yes—” she gasps from the other side. “Right there—don’t stop—”

Your legs tremble. Your other hand grips the desk hard enough to leave half-moons in the wood. You imagine it’s you she’s praising. You imagine her pulling you into that office, dragging you to your knees, whispering filthy things in that cool, controlled voice that always makes your spine straighten.

And suddenly the sounds stop. No more moaning. No more creaking. Silence. Then—Footsteps. Heels clicking. Slow. Approaching. Your breath catches. You freeze, fingers still wet between your legs, skirt pushed up indecently.

The door to her office creaks open. She appears in the doorway like a vision, hair tousled, lipstick smudged, silk blouse half-unbuttoned. The boy lingers behind her, shirt askew, dazed and spent.

But her eyes are on you. Steady. Knowing. She smooths a curl behind her ear and leans against the frame, tilting her head. “Well,” she purrs, voice like brandy. “You’ve been busy.” Your cheeks burn. You start to speak, to apologize, to explain, but nothing comes out.

You try to hold her gaze, but your eyes flick instinctively to the boy behind her. He's young, flustered, still panting slightly, the top buttons of his shirt undone. But Avis doesn’t even look at him.

She sighs. Not tired—bored. Disappointed. "You're done," she says over her shoulder, voice crisp as the snap of her garter. “Go.” The boy hesitates. Just a beat too long.

“I said go.” Her tone slices through the room like a knife. He stumbles, nearly trips over his own pants trying to pull them up, shame clinging to him like sweat. His eyes flick to you—fleeting, humiliated. You don’t look away.

Avis doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is all yours now. She listens, head slightly tilted, as the door to the outer office creaks open, then clicks shut behind him.

Silence.

Then: “Lock the door.”

You move to the door instantly. Fingers trembling slightly on the bolt. It thunks into place—final, heavy. When you turn, she’s already watching you, leaning lazily against your desk like she owns the whole building—which she does. Her blouse is still unbuttoned, her lipstick smeared, her satisfaction nowhere in sight.

Her gaze drops to your parted thighs, the dampness between them obvious now. You make no move to hide it. “Sit back down,” she says softly. You obey.

The leather chair is still warm from where you sat minutes ago, but everything else has changed. You’re skirt is up around you waist, your legs open just enough to expose the shameful slick on your panties. Her eyes drag over you like smoke—slow, deliberate, and chokingly hot.

“So,” she murmurs, stepping forward, the click of her heels echoing off the walls. “That’s why you’ve been locking the door.” You try to speak. Your mouth opens, but no sound follows. There’s no point in denying it.

Avis’s smile spreads slowly—dark, delighted. “That boy didn’t know what to do with me,” she says, almost absently, reaching for the edge of the desk and bracing herself. Her perfume wraps around you—rose and smoke and something expensive enough to hurt.

“Too frantic,” she muses. “Too greedy. No rhythm.” She walks behind you now, slow and unhurried, her fingers skimming across your shoulders, ghosting over skin like a whisper. You can’t move. Your breath catches.

“But you,” she says, voice lower now, right behind your ear. “You know how to wait. You know how to listen.” Her fingers brush the back of your neck. Light. Teasing. Just enough to make you shiver. “Tell me something, sweetheart,” she purrs, fingertips trailing down your spine. “Do you want something real?”

You nod, breath hitching, heart pounding so hard it’s painful. Her hand slides up—tangling gently in your hair, tipping your head back so your eyes meet hers. Her gaze is cool, precise, devastating.

“Good,” she says, voice a little sharper now. “Then stand up.” You do, clumsily. She doesn’t help. Just watches. “Shut the blinds.”

You rise on shaky legs. Your fingers move automatically to the blinds, twisting them shut with a soft, metallic click that seems to echo through the office. The light dims. The world narrows to just you and her and the heat pulsing between your thighs.

When you turn around, Avis is seated in your chair like it belongs to her. One leg crossed over the other. Blouse still rumpled, lipstick smudged in the most obscene way. A predator in red silk.

She crooks a finger. You come. She doesn’t touch you right away. She looks. Lets her eyes drag over you, slowly—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your knees wobble like they don’t quite trust your weight.

“So needy,” she murmurs, and you flinch, not from the words, but the way she says them. Pity and hunger, wrapped in satin. “Take off your blouse,” she says.

You do. Trembling fingers, buttons fumbling. She watches, eyes dark and hungry, but patient. Like she’s unwrapping a gift she already knows she owns. “Skirt next.” You unfasten it. Let it fall.

She tilts her head, hums low in her throat. “Look at you. All that self-control in the hallways, and now you’re shaking like a leaf.”

You nod—small, embarrassed. She smiles. Then she moves.

One second she’s lounging in the chair; the next, she’s on her feet, grabbing your hips and spinning you around. Your thighs hit the edge of the desk, hard. You gasp. Her body presses against yours from behind, heat and silk and something violent simmering beneath the surface.

“You think you can just sit out here and touch yourself like a good little secretary while I’m getting fucked on my desk?” she growls against your ear. “You think I didn’t know?”

You whimper something, but it’s cut off by her hand shoving you flat across the desk. Her body follows, chest flush against your back, one hand gripping your wrist, the other between your legs like she owns your cunt—and maybe she does.

“You listen so well,” she purrs, fingers circling, teasing, never quite enough. “But now I want to hear you scream.”

You moan, high and desperate, hips jerking, but she grabs you harder, pinning you in place. “Stay still.”

And then she’s inside you. Two fingers, thick and deliberate, pressing deep. Her other hand yanks your panties down to your knees, careless and fast. You cry out—a broken sound, more surprise than pain—but it just spurs her on.

She fucks you with her fingers like she’s trying to undo you completely. Every thrust hard and deep, no softness left. You’re spread wide across the desk, mouth open, moaning uncontrollably as wet noises fill the room, your slick dripping onto the polished wood floor.

“You like this?” she pants. “Being used like a toy on your own desk?” You nod wildly, tears blurring your vision.

She pulls your hair, yanking your head up, forcing you to look at the framed photograph on the wall across from you—a studio gala, her poised and perfect, shaking hands with someone important.

“Look at that,” she breathes. “That’s the version of me they get.” She slams her fingers deeper. Your body arches violently. “This is the one you get.”

You sob her name. It’s not even a word anymore, just raw sound. She doesn’t slow down. She leans in close, breath hot on your neck. “You come when I say,” she growls.

You nod, pleading. “Beg for it.”

“Please, Avis,” you gasp. “Please—I need it, I need to come, I—”

Her fingers twist inside you, just right, just cruel enough, and you shatter. Your body convulses under her grip, legs trembling as you come hard against her hand, every nerve lit up like a flashbulb.

She doesn’t stop until you’re wrung out and gasping, forehead pressed to the desk, barely upright.

Finally, her fingers slip free. She steps back—slow, deliberate—like she’s admiring her own work. You barely manage to lift your head, and when you do, she’s licking your wetness from her fingers, never once breaking eye contact.

But she doesn’t smirk this time. She tilts her head slightly, studying you with something deeper than amusement. Hunger. Possession. Then she says it: “My turn.”

You barely register her hand curling around your wrist before she’s dragging you to your feet. Your knees wobble, but she doesn’t give you time to stumble—her grip is firm, guiding, commanding.

She doesn’t look back as she pulls you across the outer office. Just opens the door to her space and leads you through like she’s bringing you into a temple.

The lights are low. Her desk pristine. The couch against the far wall looks like it cost more than your monthly salary.

She shuts the door behind you with a soft click. Then she turns. And the look on her face—dark, certain, electric—tells you one thing: Whatever just happened out there? Was only the beginning.

She walks ahead of you like she already knows how this will end—heels clicking against polished floors, blouse more undone. You hesitate a step inside the threshold of her office, every inch of your body humming with what she’s already taken from you.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just crosses to the couch, lowers herself with a grace that feels choreographed, like she’s done this before. Like she’s imagined you here before.

One leg crosses over the other, and she drapes an arm along the backrest, her blouse gaping open as she regards you from her throne of soft leather and shadow.

“Well?” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “I told you—it’s my turn.” You take a shaky breath. Her eyes drop to your mouth. “On your knees.” It’s not a suggestion.

You come to stand in front of her and sink to the plush rug without a word, muscles still weak, thighs still sticky. You keep your gaze low until her fingers curl beneath your chin, tipping your head up so you’re forced to look at her—lips still parted, eyes molten and merciless.

“You’ve had your little secret,” she murmurs, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “Locking the door. Listening to me. Touching yourself while I get fucked.”

The flush in your cheeks burns. She smiles like she loves it. “You want to be good now? Show me.” She uncrosses her legs—slowly—and spreads them. No hesitation. No shame.

“I’m going to sit back,” Avis says softly, voice like smoke, “and you’re going to worship me.” You nod. Eager. Desperate.

But she grips your hair before you can move forward, not hard—but firm enough to remind you who's in control.

“Slowly,” she whispers. “Make me feel what you’ve been thinking about all those times.” And so you do, obedient, reverent, trembling with want.

Your hands find her thighs first, skin warm and smooth beneath your palms, firm with tension she hasn’t released yet. You stroke slowly upward until your fingers reach the soft curve near her hips. You feel her muscles tighten beneath your touch, and she says nothing, but her breath shifts—quicker, shallower.

You lean in, and your lips hover just above her skin. Close enough to feel her heat, but not yet touching. You breathe her in, expensive perfume mingled with the darker, headier scent of arousal, and your mouth waters.

Your lips brush the inside of her thigh. Barely a kiss. A tease. She exhales sharply above you, head tilting back against the couch cushion, one elegant hand lazily resting at her side, the other still tangled in your hair.

You do it again. Another kiss, a little higher. Then another. You trail your mouth upward like a supplicant inching toward the altar, savoring the tension in every heartbeat, every twitch of her hips. Her thigh trembles under your tongue as you trace lazy circles, letting your breath ghost over her folds.

Finally—finally—you taste her.

She lets out a low, guttural sound that vibrates through her whole body and into yours. Her legs shift wider, inviting, commanding. Her hips roll slowly against your mouth, and you take her in like you’ve been dreaming of this—because you have.

She tastes expensive. Rich. Sharp with power. She tastes like everything you’re not supposed to have and everything you’ve ever wanted.

Your tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, teasing, exploring. You pay attention to the way her breath catches, the way her thighs twitch when you flick just right, the way her hand tightens in your hair—not to stop you, but to guide.

“You’ve done this before,” she murmurs, voice heavy with amusement and something darker. “Haven’t you, sweetheart?”

You hesitate for just a second, then pull back just enough to speak, breath hot against her skin. “No,” you whisper. “Only for you.” That stops her breath.

You feel it in her thighs, the way they tense. Her fingers tighten in your hair, holding you there—not to push, not yet—but to feel the weight of your words.

She looks down at you, eyes molten and unblinking, lips parted in something between surprise and hunger.

“Oh,” she says, the sound almost reverent. “Is that right?” You nod now, slow and sure. “I wanted it to be you.” Something in her breaks. Or maybe it deepens.

“Then don’t stop,” she breathes, voice low and unsteady now, all pretense falling away. “Show me what that want feels like.”

Your hands grip her thighs, anchoring yourself as her hips begin to move more insistently, grinding into your mouth. Her control is unraveling, but only because she allows it. She rides the rhythm, and you follow her lead.

Still, she remains composed. Even breathless, even as her thighs quiver around your head and her moans begin to spill from her lips in quiet, shaky curses—she’s still in charge. Always. She moans your name like she owns it. And when she finally cums, it’s with a shudder so sharp it echoes through you.

Her hand slips from your hair as her head falls back against the couch cushion, chest rising and falling. You rest your cheek on her thigh, lips swollen, heart racing, waiting for whatever comes next.

Her voice, when it returns, is low and hoarse—but still sharp with amusement. “Next time,” Avis murmurs, smiling down at you, “you’ll knock.”

[josy-woodhouse]

Remember that Yuval Raphael is not the Israeli government, and remember that she is a direct victim of Hamas crimes

Criticize the Israeli government all you want; there is plenty of reason to do so. But this post isn't about the crimes of Israel; there are plenty of those posts already. This post is about the Survivor Yuval Raphael, contestant at the Eurovision Song Contest 2025, and about the crimes of the Hamas.

Yuval Raphael has been through enough.

But remember that this whole recent escalation started with a terror act committed by the Hamas in 2023, the Nova Music Festival Massacre. A terrorist attack in which 378 people (give or take about 20 depending on the source), 344 of whom were civilians, have been killed and 44 people (give or take 5 depending on the source) have been taken hostage. An act committed by a terrorist organization that specifically targeted civilians on that day, that has specifically targeted civilians many times before that day and will doubtlessly continue to specifically target civilians in the future. Yuval Raphael was present during one of the attacks, specifically the one at the festival directly. She survived in an unsealed rocket bunker. Be aware that these bunkers are not meant to withstand an attack by ground forces. They can easily be opened from the outside.

So if you partake in any of the aggression targeted against her, you should be ashamed. If you support the many death threats that have been directed towards her, you should be ashamed. And while far from every critic against Israel is antisemitic, all criticism claiming that the Hamas does not target civilians and all the criticism implying that the Hamas has some higher right to kill jewish civilians is antisemitic.

Replies will be deleted if they contain any kind of conspiracy content, antisemitic content, or antisemitic dog whistles. I am not willing to set any stage for that kind of BS.

[t00-many-eyes]

“I want to kiss you,” Arthur says, as John is in the middle of describing to him how the evening sun is bathing the motel room in its golden light. His voice is low and soothing, and he sounds so- human, telling him how the paddles of sunlight spread on the wooden floor like spilled honey, that it just becomes too much, and the words slip from his tongue. John falls silent.

“Arthur,” he says softly, and Arthur would die a thousand times, would go through all they have already gone – again, just to hear his name being said like this once more.

“I know it's stupid,” he responds quietly. “I know it's... Impossible, John. But I just wanted you to know.”

Impossible for now, he yearns to say, but he's too afraid to think so far into the future, not with the life they have. And truth be told, he isn't sure he really wants John to leave his head. It's egoistic, but sometimes Arthur is glad John's with him, within him, safe and close, oh-so-close. Arthur is glad no one can hurt John, no one can take him from him. And then – then he wants to kiss him, to hold him, to feel him, and it only becomes more and more unbearable each day they spend so close to each other.

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters, suddenly ashamed.

“No, it's- It's fine, Arthur,” John says, the vibrations of his voice familiar and quiet. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Arthur's left hand – the one he can't feel anymore – finds his right one. Their fingers intertwine. It feels weird for Arthur – it is his hand and yet it isn't, he can feel John, his warmth, the way he's carefully caressing the back of his hand with his thumb.

“If it matters... I'd like to kiss you, too.”

Arthur exhales lightly, and maybe he needs so say something, but all he can do is bring his- John's hand to his lips and kiss his knuckles, his fingertips, the centre of his palm. John gasps softly in surprise.

“Arthur,” he whispers, vulnerable and trembling, and the name is no longer a name but a prayer, a pleading, a begging. And Arthur is not God not to answer it.

“John,” he whispers back. John traces his half-opened lips with his fingertips carefully, and Arthur's heart skips a bit. He wants more, he wants- John, he wants the shadows to take him, to consume him whole, he wants to taste the shadows, to touch them- him. He wants John.

However, all he can do for now is kiss the fingertips caressing his lips. It is a promise – one Arthur will keep. He'll make sure of it.

[broodwoof]

things are coalescing in my mind.... ( hopefully yall don't mind being tagged! if u do just lmk and i'll remove it <3 )

@nists art and its statement about solas being a desiring and willing partner to elgar'nan...

@charamei's meta about elgar'nan as a spirit of faith...

all the voice lines from the fight, including the data-mined (and voiced!) lines that @flowersforthemachines posted here....

the dialogue between solas and cassandra during inquisition, such as:

Solas: You seem troubled, Seeker. Still plagued by thoughts of your order?

Cassandra: I... am reminded of what I was told following my vigil. They said my abilities were a gift from the Maker, a reward for my faith and dedication. But it was a trick, wasn't it? A ritual no different that the Harrowing, simply magic...

Solas: Do you know how rare spirits of faith are? How difficult it is to draw them to this world? You should be proud, having accomplished something so remarkable, not ashamed it was not what you thought.

Cassandra: Thank you, Solas. That... does make me feel better.

Solas: Your faith does you credit, Cassandra. I hope your Maker is worthy.

and cole:

Cole: I am sorry your friend died, Solas.

Solas: Thank you, Cole.

Cole: I didn't know there were spirits of wisdom.

Solas: There are few. Spirits form as a reflection of this world and its passions.

Solas: We will never lack for spirits of rage, or hunger, or desire. The world gives them plenty to mirror.

Solas: The gentler spirits are far more rare. We can ill afford the loss of even one spirit of wisdom, or faith...

Solas: Or compassion.

Cole: I will try not to die.

Solas: Do that, please.

and this banter, also with cassandra, which does not directly touch on the subject but does give us some insight into solas and his concept of faith, and specifically how he does not really have faith as such, but believes in people - perhaps a change from believing in faith (Faith) once

Cassandra: Solas, if you do not mind me asking, what do you believe in?

Solas: Cause and effect. Wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free willed people to exist.

Cassandra: That is not what I meant.

Solas: I know. I believe the elven gods existed, as did the old gods of Tevinter. But I do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity. I appreciate the idea of your Maker, a god that does not need to prove his power. I wish more such gods felt the same.

Cassandra: You have seen much sadness in your journeys, Solas. Following the Maker might offer some hope.

Solas: I have people, Seeker. The greatest triumphs and tragedies this world has known can all be traced to people.

and i am connecting the fucking dots here

(okay i am actually open to many interpretations and hold multiple interpretations of things simultaneously, but this is giving me a very compelling angle to explore)

elgar'nan as faith. solas as wisdom+pride (bc i do think he was tapping into both aspects regularly). solas asked to take form to help quell elgar'nan, perhaps because mythal could see the corruption beginning to take root, or perhaps because of the titans more than elgar'nan; nonetheless, he took form and walked amongst the evanuris for so long

somewhere in that span of time, approached by elgar'nan or approaching him, discussing things at length. conversations that lasted days, weeks. debates that were heated but never angry. faith and wisdom+pride pushing each other, but never maliciously. a rigorous scholarly exercise

and then. the beginning of the end. elgar'nan growing a little colder, a little sharper. making more demands of those who followed him - willingly. the wars taking their toll. fewer debates. more arguments, or more condescension. solas, bitter and hurt, retreating to mythal... much later regretting this (not because of mythal tho) since he is convinced that he could have reached elgar'nan at this stage, could have made him see what he was becoming

solas being disappointed to see a spirit of faith being corrupted, trying to stem the tide (alongside mythal, in my view!), but eventually losing the battle. the deep regret of that; of, one, having someone you care for slip away, become someone - something - else; and, two, having that someone else become a tyrant. believing that you had a chance to turn them from that path if you had only done it right. the weight of that regret... and how solas is so shaped by his regrets...

different angle on solar'nan and i am Thinking About It 👀

i also want to include this bit of solas and cassandra banter, because i feel like it touches on solas' view of the evanuris, of course, and arlathan, and organizations - very possibly including his own rebellion - but can also be looped back to more broadly referencing the corruption of, in this case, elgar'nan and how that was the beginning of the end for an arlathan he remembers fondly:

Cassandra: I noticed, Solas, that you did not seem surprised by what I uncovered about the Seekers.

Solas: No? They are an organization.

Cassandra: You think organizations to be inherently corrupt?

Solas: Given enough time, yes. To survive, an organization must devote resources to maintaining itself. Those resources inevitably accumulate until the original purpose, however pure, is all but lost.

Cassandra: You make the Seekers sound like a mindless beast.

Solas: A beast, no matter how mindless, will die and give way to a successor. An organization is eternal. There are always corrupt men who hoard power for their own gain and there are always honorable men who hoard power to fight them.

side note, i absolutely love his "No?" the question mark. solas the man u are.

[theeartuaist]

The Nonchalant Yandere

There is a particular archetype of yandere I need to see more of. They are the type who has convinced everyone—including themselves—that they're completely chill, totally casual, absolutely not obsessed with you at all.

But they are. Oh, they ARE.

It's the character who shrugs and says "whatever, do what you want" when you mention going out with friends, then somehow ends up at the same restaurant "completely by coincidence." It's the one who maintains that perfect façade of disinterest while knowing your exact schedule, your favorite coffee order, and the name of the dentist you mentioned once eight months ago.

"Oh, you're going to that concert? Cool, I guess. Might check it out too. No big deal."

*has already bought tickets directly behind yours and memorized the setlist so they can casually discuss it with you afterward*

The beautiful psychological complexity of the nonchalant yandere is that they're fighting a constant internal war. Part of them genuinely WANTS to be casual about you. They HATE how much they care. They're embarrassed by the intensity of their feelings and trying desperately to play it cool. But beneath that carefully constructed indifference is someone who has memorized your class schedule, your allergies, your childhood pet's name, and probably has a secret folder of photos they "happened to take" when you weren't looking.

What makes them especially fascinating is the DENIAL. They're not just hiding their obsession from you—they're hiding it from themselves. They have elaborate justifications for every "coincidence" and "accidental" encounter:

"It's not weird that I know their work schedule. I just have a good memory."

"I'm not following them, I just happen to enjoy the same coffee shop they frequent... at exactly the same time... five days a week."

"I only have their location because they shared it with me once for safety reasons. It would be irresponsible to turn it off."

The nonchalant yandere believes their own lies, and that self-deception makes them all the more convincing to everyone else. Their friends think they're just casually into you. Their behavior skirts the line of normal interest just closely enough that pointing it out makes YOU seem paranoid.

And the most delicious narrative tension? When something happens that threatens their carefully maintained façade. When someone else shows interest in you and suddenly that mask of indifference CRACKS, revealing just a glimpse of the obsession underneath before they hastily patch it back together.

"Did you see how they looked at you? Not that I care. Just seemed disrespectful. Anyway, whatever, it's fine."

Or when they accidentally reveal they know something they shouldn't possibly know:

"You don't need another umbrella, you already have three at home."

"Wait, how do you know what's in my apartment?"

"You mentioned it once. Anyway, this weather sucks, right?"

It's that constant push-pull between wanting to appear nonchalant and the all-consuming need to know everything about you, to be near you, to ensure no one else gets close to you—all while maintaining plausible deniability.

And the payoff when they finally break? When something pushes them too far and that carefully constructed indifference shatters completely? That moment of "I've pretended not to care for so long but I've memorized every detail of your existence and I can't pretend anymore"?

NARRATIVE GOLD.

Give me the character who says "yeah, whatever" while reorganizing their entire life to orbit yours. Give me the one who maintains they "don't get jealous" while subtly sabotaging every potential relationship you pursue. Give me the one whose room looks completely normal until you find that one drawer, that one password-protected folder, that one notebook that reveals just how deep the obsession runs.

They aren't just trying to fool you—they're trying to fool themselves. And there's something beautifully tragic about someone so consumed by feelings they're ashamed of having, trying, and failing to be the chill, casual person they wish they could be.

That's my catnip right there. The one who's dying inside every time they force themselves to say "no big deal" when every cell in their body is screaming that you are, in fact, the biggest deal in their entire existence.

[lightningant]

this is so random but can I just say how much I love the whole scene of harry sneaking into toms flat in vov. I think you did his point of view spectacularly, him being an absolute WIERDO ( laying on his bed? seriously) and thinking this invasion of privacy is totally normal and justified

It is so important that you remember that this break-in occurs right at the apex of Harry spiraling and he is neither normal nor casual about this decision.

fun with quotes:

But he didn’t, which is what he told Ginny. What he wanted was, and he had no one to tell this so he clumsily swept Bowl from his neck and dropped it onto the floor and squeezed it with fierce determination so he could look it in its green-paint eyes, “I have got to break into his house.”

^ Harry actively replaces his negative thoughts with casing Tom. This is his way of intercepting his own suicide ideation.

considering the place was much smaller than his own little bedsit. [...] Harry collapsed face-first into the bed to rate the conditions Lord Voldemort slept in. It was a decent mattress, but far too firm for Harry[...]

^ Harry investigates the bed because he is attempting to relate to Voldemort.

Harry jerked back off the bed, ashamed by the fact it smelled like nothing but Sleekeazy’s and human sweat.

A weight sat heavy in his stomach as he dropped the clothes, and his skin crawled and crawled until he abruptly stood up and strode to the kitchenette. Harry took deep breaths through his nose, taking in the slightly musty smell of decrepit housing instead of the indication that Tom Riddle was a human being, with bodily functions that could fail.

It was cool to the touch, but it may as well have been burning, for all his blood roared through his trembling fingertips.

He felt dizzy, and abruptly sucked in a breath. He hadn’t realized he stopped breathing. It was good, wasn’t it?

Harry slammed the dairy shut and tossed it against the wall in a panic before the letters even faded.

Harry spends the entire break-in in a state of vague distress and unable to pull together the energy to actually investigate properly.

And don't forget WHY he put the eye-spier in Tom's bedroom specifically:

Another reason he felt nervous sleeping in a bed after Ginny left was that he’d gotten accustomed to watching her sleep.

Back then, he was dedicating himself to a life with Ginny. Now Tom was his objective[...]

This is an extremely fucking funny thing for him to do, but it's not a "haha, Harry's such a stalker" gag, it's a direct statement on how Harry views his fight with Tom Riddle - which is coloured by Lord Voldemort being dead and Ginny asking for separation.

Ocean Music begins with the premise that the cosmic battle between fated enemies is a relationship where he triumphed, whereas a romance with the woman he loves ended in failure.

Tom's unreliability is about his unwillingness to accept his illness, lack of value, and vulnerability (and how sexy Harry is), but Harry's unreliability is that he categorically refuses to admit his current dedication to killing Tom Riddle is an expression of his desire to experience Divorce But Good, and he can't have Divorce But Good if Tom is dead.

Harry does not actually enjoy interacting with Tom or his life - while Tom obsessively fantasizes about him, Harry spends a great deal of time not thinking about Tom at all, and when he does think of him it's with melancholy - but he doesn't feel safe unless he thinks that somewhere out there, an evil villain only he can vanquish is waiting. A lot of the pleasure he gets in the moment is the reassurance he could pull it off.

So Ocean Music posits the incredible comedy of Harry breaking in on impulse to force himself to stop crying, not really knowing what to do when he gets there, feeling his safety challenged by the idea Tom can catch influenza, and running away in terror.

[gakukitty]

how big they are — ✦

featuring . . . sakadays men <33

note . . . i have had this in my drafts for ages now LOL. . also can you tell i haven’t seen many dicks before. sigh,,, it’ll happen one day i guess lol

shin — thicker

about 5.9 inches long, and suuupeerr heavy in the palm. when i tell u that shin’s girthy, i mean it!! he can reach every single sensitive spot and have you squirming around like a little mouse in mere seconds !! i’d say he’s pretty shy abt it, tho >///< “awe, come on.. i’m not that big..” he says, before knocking aalll the air out of you with just one thrust !

kei — longer and a little thick but only a little

6.3 inches, only a little thick. he’s pretty long, not too much of a noticeable curve of vein anywhere but he always manages to find the right angle to get soooo deeepp !! kei knows the best ways to get you feeling good >,<

nagumo — a little thick and a lot long

not toooo thick, but balanced out by his impressive 6.7 inch length !! a super subtle curve to the right, not really veiny except for that one singular vein on the underside that’s sooo freakin sensitive. he whines like a little bitch when he feels your tongue or your finger trace it— the bastard’s not even ashamed, either !! he’ll whine as much as possible if it makes you happy.

heisuke — slightly thick and long

6.6 inches, pretty thick with the cutest tip ever!! curves a little to the left with a vein on the underside of his cock that gets soooo sensitive when you lick/kiss it !! he gets all whiny n a little squirmy when he feels your lips on him :(

natsuki — long, moderately thick

6.4 inches, not too thick but he’s got enough to reach aaalll the right places !! curves up a little, always managing to fill you soo nicely and he’s got a little mole on the base of his cock that is just soooo kissable

gaku — long and thick and rlly juicy tipppp mmmm

he’s PAACKKINNGG. a big 7 inches long, heavy in the palm and he’s suuucchh a big stretch. takes lots of prep that he just can’t be bothered with— but he doesn’t wanna hurt u, so he preps u anyways <33 he’s pretty veiny (and don’t tell anyone, but he lets out a little groan when you lick the more prominent vein on the right !!) + his tip is so fricken juicy and very kissable !!! (and lickable :p!!)

shishiba — looonggg

6.8 inches long!! not too thick, but he deffff makes up with it for how deep he can reach. aaandd it curves up just a little, his tip nestling to the most delicious spot ever !!!

gozu — thick & long

6.5 inches long and soooo deliciously thick it literally causes you to drool. every time he thrusts into you, he reaches so far you swear you can feel him in your throat !! mmmmmmmm…

tenkyu — thickish and a little long

he’s about 6 inches long and moderately thick, nothing too special— but he makes up for it by fucking you like an actual animal. tenkyu is a total beast; and his cock is a whole seperate type of creature :P

© gakukitty please don’t copy my work , repost it and claim as your own , translate , or use it to train ai ♡

[dandylion240]

Squinting up into the dark sky watching the lightning illuminate the dark rolling clouds scuttling across the sky. The wind whipped the trees around, reminding him of a scene from a movie he watched as a kid that had given him nightmares for days afterwards. Swallowing he turned from the window “are you sure about this? Wouldn’t it be better if we went another day?”

“It’s a little rain,” Jayden said, grinning at him, “besides it’s not every night your dad agrees to babysit for us.”

“I know,” Evan rubbed his hands up and down his arms chilled from standing by the window. “What’s this house you want me to see? It’s got to be special for you to drag me out in a storm like this.” He’d asked before in various ways hoping Jayden would tell  him something. So far all he’d gotten out of him was the house was everything he’d dreamed of. Forcing a smile to his face wanting to give the appearance of being somewhat excited to see it. 

“What’s the matter babe?” Jayden asked, noticing the forced smile and the way it didn’t light up Evan’s pretty green eyes. “If you want me to, I’ll cancel.” As he talked he pulled his phone out “we can stay home, light a fire…”

“Tempting,” Evan laughed a little, feeling a little ashamed that he was so worried about a little storm. Although the look in Jayden’s eyes left no doubt where this evening would wind up, which wasn’t a half bad idea. “No it’s okay. I want to see this house.”

“You're sure?” Jayden asked his phone out and he was ready to dial the realtor. “We can see the house another day.” The more he thought about it the more he liked the idea of a night of cuddling.

Thunder rumbled outside rattling the pictures on the wall. Lightning cracked nearby making Evan jump as the house was plunged into darkness. “We should probably wait,” he said leaning into Jayden as he felt his arms slip around him. His breath caught as Jayden’s fingers slipped beneath his sweater making the storm and house hunting a dim memory. “Make the call” he murmured, pushing Jayden away before he lost all ability to think.

Moaning in protest Jayden stepped back “the one time I forget I have a phone is the one time you want me to use it.”

“I’ll start the fire while you call” he chuckled, turning to light the fireplace, wincing a little at the sudden brightness as the lights came back on. 

Focusing on his phone Jayden muttered “do you have any idea what you do to me?” From the look he caught on Evan’s face he knew he definitely knew what effect he had. “We’re in luck the realtor sent a text to reschedule for next Saturday at five.”

“But that’s Spooky day” Evan groaned “it’s Josie’s first time trick or treating. She looks so cute in her costume.”

“We can still take her trick or treating,” Jayden said “looking at the house won’t take all night.”

“I guess,” although he agreed, he sounded unconvinced.

“How about we do this,” Jayden suggested moving to sit beside him on the floor. “I’ll take a half day from work. That way we can take our lil dragon to all the relatives before we go.”

“Did you peak?” Evan asked, looking at him suspiciously.

“I didn’t have to,” he chuckled softly leaning in to give Evan a kiss. “What else was she going to be but a dragon?” He rolled Evan over on the floor “enough talking. We have the whole evening to ourselves. I don’t want to waste a single moment of it.”

A week later they were on their way to look at the house the realtor promised was everything Evan ever dreamed of in a house. “She said it has the white pillars and veranda around the front?” Evan asked with excitement in his voice.

“That’s what she said,” Jayden turned to look at him with a soft smile on his lips. They had gotten a later start than they had planned. Stopping at everyone’s house had taken longer than they thought with everyone wanting to take pictures and talk. They had hoped to arrive before the realtor did so they could see the house in the light. Leaning forward he tried to see through the thickening fog that even the headlights couldn’t penetrate. “Where did all this fog come from?” he muttered aloud.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Evan suggested with a nervous quiver as he squinted out the window. “There’s probably deer…”

“Horsie,” Josie giggled pointing excitedly out the window from her car seat in the back.

“Where?” Evan tried to see what his daughter was pointing at “I don’t see…” When he spotted the rearing horse his heart dropped to his stomach “Jayden” he cried pointing frantically at the horse.

“Oh shit,” Jayden gasped, slamming his foot on the brake. The car swerved spinning out of control. The car came to a sudden abrupt stop with a loud crunch and shattering glass. Moaning Jayden lifted his face up from the deployed airbag, blood smeared its white surface from his busted lip and throbbing nose. “Evan,” he croaked “hon, are you alright?”

“I think so,” his voice was thick like he had just woken up. “Josie,” he tried to twist around in his seat, crying out in pain when it pinned him to the back of his seat, choking him.

Releasing his seat belt with trembling fingers Jayden stretched across the seat to help Evan with his seat belt. “Stay still” he urged “I can’t get you loose with you struggling like that.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he brushed Jayden’s hands away. “Check on Josie. Is she alright?”

Leaning between the seats Jayden gasped as he took in the empty car seat and open back door. “Josie,” he called, eyes wide as he tried to see where she might have gone in the fog. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he brushed Jayden’s hands away. “Check on Josie. Is she alright?”

Leaning between the seats Jayden gasped as he took in the empty car seat and opened the back door. “Josie,” he screamed, eyes wide as he tried to see where she might have gone in the fog. 

Struggling in his seat Evan tried to pull the seat belt loose with his bare hands. “Is she hurt?” he asked, feeling sick to his stomach. What if she was hurt? What if she were…no no no she had to be alright. Please please please let her be alright, he begged to anyone who could hear his silent pleas.

Pushing himself away from his daughter’s empty car seat Jayden turned to his panicking husband. “Sit still. I’m going to cut you loose.”

“What about Josie?” he demanded yanking on the belt causing it to tighten even more. Panting from the strain it put on his ribs he looked into Jayden’s somber eyes “she’s dead isn’t she?”

Slamming the glove compartment door shut he took hold of Evan’s face between his hands. “Josie’s not dead.” He let his words sink in “you know how she’s been able to get out of her car seat for a while.” Evan nodded but the anxious look in his eyes never abated. “While we were knocked out she got out.”

“What?” Evan croaked, twisting around to look out the window. Fog was swirling around thick and impregnable. “My baby could be anywhere in that. How are we going to find her?”

“Listen to me,” Jayden held him “we’re going to find her. I promise we’re going to find her.”

“You’re going to have to climb out on this side,” Jayden said after watching Evan ty to force his door open. 

“Alright” he grunted as he crawled across the console in the middle. He tried to move carefully but the movement made his sore ribs hurt even more. His face went several shades paler by the time he reached the other side of the car. Stumbling through the open door he tried not to pass out as his world grew dim around him.

“I’ve got you,” Jayden said, putting an arm around Evan to help support him. “I think you might have broken a rib or two.” Reaching for his phone, frowning as he tried to make a call. Turning to Evan “are you getting a signal?”

Fumbling for his phone Evan stared at it in confusion “nothing.”

“Must be a dead zone,” Jayden shrugged, putting the useless device in his pocket.

Shivering Evan held his arms stiffly to his sides. “Don’t say things like that,” he muttered looking around the fog covered landscape. “Which way do you think she went?” Silence greeted him “Jayden?” He hadn’t realized he was alone until he received no response to calls. Holding onto the car he took a few unsteady steps. “Jayden” he called his voice coming out in a squeak that was swallowed by the thickening fog.

Squinting he thought something was moving towards him. “Jayden, is that you?” The silhouette stopped. Evan stepped in the direction of the shadowy figure “Jayden? This isn’t funny.” The words were no more than a whisper. Swallowing Evan looked from side to side, stepping backwards as the figure crept closer. His scream shattered the silence as a cold icey hand touched his shoulder sliding along his bare skin along his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Jayden apologized holding his hands to his ears “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Blinking he turned to find Jayden looking at him in concern. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” his scowl slowly fading to a frown “weren’t you just over there?” He pointed in the direction he’d last seen the silhouette. 

“No,” he squinted in the direction Evan was pointing “was someone over there?”

“I thought so,” Evan squinted in the direction he'd seen the silhouette but the swirling fog made it impossible to make out anything. “I thought it was you.”

“Maybe it was whoever was riding that damn horse down the road” Jayden suggested sounding as if he wanted to give the rider a piece of his mind.

“Then why didn’t they come over to see if we were alright?” Evan asked.

“I don’t know,” chuckling a little, Jayden grinned “maybe you scared him. Shit you scared me with that blood curdling scream of yours.”

“Maybe,” he said, sounding unconvinced. He gave the area one last look not sure if he really wanted to see anything there or not.

“I think I found where our little dragon went,” Jayden said, taking his hand “I found an open gate over here.”

Previous/Next

[natjennie]

I wanna donate platelets again because I like doing it and I like that I'm genuinely demonstrably helping people AND I want the fun halloween t-shirt but I've tried a few times and they can't take my blood pressure because my arms are too fat :(

[eastonsadie]

She watches a bit of disappointment bloom on the stranger's face, and there's that natural part of her that flares up whenever she has to deliver bad news of any kind, whether it's letting a family know their kid's being trouble, or not doing well, or something as small as telling somebody they're in for a longer wait than they might have thought.

"Yeah, they do change quick don't they." This is the kind of talk usually reserved for older folks that can't keep up with the times, so it's a little quaint and amusing in that way, but she doesn't want to make h9im feel bad, so she keeps it to a muted smile. "Keep at it, you'll figure it out - they do have classes about tech-literacy, though. Here, even! I think. Just check the brochures up front. It's nothing to be ashamed of, some people just get it quicker than others - it can be confusing."

It is late though, and she does need to get home and do her own homework. But every glance out the window into the rain makes her feel a little bad. It goes against everything she knows about protecting yourself in this day and age, but, well, she can't help but offer, right? It's the kind thing. She brings up her messages, then, and shoots something to Viktoria.

[ vik >>] hey, going to give somebody a ride home. just want somebody to know that in case, well, you know 💀. he seems harmless though. will text you after?

Slipping her phone back into her bag, she takes a breath. "I'm actually about to head out? I could," -a tiny beat of hesitation, "I could drop you off where you need to go? If it's not too far?"

“That...” Quin began, his eyes narrowing as leaned forwards to read the time off her phone instead of taking it from her hands. “Is not as soon as I had hoped.”

He dropped back into the chair, making sure not to lean it back on two legs again this time.

“Computers keep changing. I can’t keep up.” Back when they’d started showing up more and more, he’d made an effort, but it was in vain. You can take the man out of the pre-Dark Ages, but you cannot take the pre-Dark Ages superstitions out of the man, and the screeching of a modem sounded a bit too close to some sort of trapped anima for his liking. He knew, logically, that machines didn’t power themselves on the trapped spirits of the long-dead, but that didn’t stop him from going a good decade before trying again. By then, they’d changed so completely, he really didn’t see the point in trying to catch up.

He could barely figure out the smartphone he’d been forced to keep for his bosses to contact him. He didn’t need a bigger, more confusing version of the same.

[firebirdsdaughter]

I'm divided…

… I like Rukia getting something to do, I like the Kuchiki sibs plus their idiot, I like that she was allowed to hold her own despite this being a 2000s shonen manga, you know what I mean. Like for what it was many of the women in BLEACH made it through fairly well and I like that. I like Rukia being cool, I like her Bankai, I like it.

But at the same time… Like I get why it was her, and I like it, and I don't so much mind as… Well, I just kinda wish that Renji had gotten to kill As Nodt, since he was the one who actually had to watch Byakuya get maimed like that? Like obvi Rukia deserves a shot too, like I said, I understand it being her and I don't mind, I just kinda would… Also like to see a reality where Renji got to do him in.

Not necessarily in canon, bc yes, give Rukia more to do? Like I just want an au where Renji got him. Them. Finish what he tried to start before getting punted.

It's like I like the way it was and I wouldn't actually change it bc we always need more women being able to fight on their own, and I liked what was done. I loved Byakuya just showing up to get his bankai back and then leaving the rest to his sister, I love love love her getting Bankai.

I just. Want to see the version where Renji gets a go at him after having to watch that.

Like I don't want to write it myself, but I want it.