#but that it shouldn't be an answer to everything

[doberbutts]

With this latest round of discourse being "trans men shouldn't complain about being kicked out of women's spaces", I felt the urge to write up a relatively long post regarding the topic, as I feel it is a long tangled mess and involves a significant amount of people simply talking past each other.

To begin, what is a woman's space? I ask this, because "women's spaces" often fall under one of three categories: medical services, social services, and social gatherings. Of the three, trans men need access to nearly everything if not everything included within "medical services" and "social services". These things often need to be considered co-ed anyway, but are still considered "for women" and often are labeled things like "women's health" or "women's defense". Social gatherings- things such as book clubs, concerts, festivals, and other similar outings- can have a nuanced and complicated history when it comes to the inclusion, or exclusion, of trans men.

As an example- I am a binary, gay trans man who has not yet been sterilized. If I become pregnant and need to seek out social services, I must do so via my provider's "Women and Babies" department. I am neither of those things, and yet regardless of whether I am completing or terminating the pregnancy, I must label myself a woman in order to receive care. If I wish to have a pap smear, receive birth control, or investigate my chances of ovarian and cervical cancer, I must do so via the "Women's Health Clinic". I am not a woman, but I must label myself as one in order to discuss sterilization options. Many trans men who have had their gender markers changed prior to sterilization have reported difficulty even booking an appointment, as well as difficulty convincing their insurance to pay for this appointment due to a discrepancy with gender markers vs gendered care. Many have discussed the realities of being a pregnant man, whether they remained pregnant until their child was born, or whether they terminated said pregnancy with an abortion.

It should come as no surprise that the statistics for trans men receiving quality gynecological care are abysmal. It should be equally unsurprising to hear how many trans men have died from botched abortions, untreated miscarriages, infections and cancers of the uterus and cervix and ovaries, and complications during pregnancy or birth. We belong in this space, despite it being labeled "for women", and the only thing pushing us out has done is quite literally what's been killing us.

This is, of course, not even taking into account the numbers of trans men who have been forced to become pregnant via their husbands or families as a means to detransition them, and those who have become pregnant as a result of corrective rape. There is a saying among trans men of my age- it isn't "we all know a guy this has happened to", it's "which of us haven't experienced this? who among us doesn't fear this? who will it happen to next?"

Which brings me to my next point: women's social services. As with women's medical care, nearly everything labeled "for women" as a social service must be inclusive to trans men. Shelters for domestic violence survivors, rape crisis centers, self defense classes, family planning, these are all things that honestly should already be co-ed. But, many times, they are exclusively targeted towards women. I understand why, I do. But with trans men being statistically more likely than cis women to experience the need for these services, it seems a cruelty to close their doors to a vulnerable demographic reaching out for help.

Where should trans men in crisis go? Shutting the door to us without addressing the reason we need to access these resources gives us a single ultimatum: detransition, or die. Go back to being a woman, or die knowing the likelihood that a woman's name will adorn your headstone, and "daughter, wife, mother" will be said in your obituary. Much like the medical services, this incomplete answer has lead many trans men to their deaths. Whether by their own hands, or by their attackers'.

But there are other social services out there that perhaps are not as dire. Women's scholarships, colleges, all girls schools. Girl Scouts, women's sport leagues, gym memberships. Trans men don't need access to these, right?

Well... is the trans man in question out? Has he been living as a man, or is he still closeted? Is it safe for him to come out? Does he pass, or has he just bought his first binder and given himself his first buzz cut? Is he living under the control of his parents, or is he able to freely decide for himself the type of person he'd like to be and the type of life he'd like to live?

You see, I was a Girl Scout once. And, if we are to believe to our core that trans men are men even before they know the words "transgender", this means I was a boy in a girl's space. I didn't know that being transgender was an option for me at the point where my troop disbanded, and another leader to replace the first within my local area was not found until after I had aged out.

But also... I was in 7th grade when my troop disbanded. Two years later, I would learn the word "transgender", and suddenly everything would make sense. Two years later, I would come out to my parents and my sisters. To put this into perspective, I graduated high school in 2010. The Boy Scouts officially allowed cisgender girls and transgender people of all genders to join all programs in 2019.

I was not expelled from my Girl Scout troop. My leader simply stopped showing up to meetings, and my troop disbanded to go our separate ways when leadership could not find someone quickly enough to replace her. But... if this had not happened, I would have been a recently out transgender boy in a girl's social service, still wearing push up bras and frilly shirts because that's all my parents would buy me until I became an adult and moved out and had a job with my own money to re-purchase myself a wardrobe. Indistinguishable from any of the others, outside of what went on inside my own mind.

I would not have been accepted into the Boy Scouts, if Girl Scouts had been taken from me as abruptly as it was from a different transgender boy in the same state I was born and raised. Which would have left me with... nothing. Neither. And the only reason I even joined the Girl Scouts was because I had wanted to join the Boy Scouts and the local troop had refused to allow me, because they had labeled me a girl.

I don't believe I'm the one that coined Schrodinger's Gender, but I do reference it often. In this situation, one is both a boy when it hurts, and a girl when it hurts. Even if that gender label changes by the second, the point is to use your gender and your assigned sex to hurt you.

But then, why do these services even have to be gendered to begin with? After all, Boy Scouts just updated to be The Scouts, and has removed (on paper) the insistence on gendering.

Well... I certainly agree that the majority of gendering these services is at this point a concept that needs to be reformed, but I'm unconvinced that we will be able to completely integrate without addressing the reason they were segregated by gender in the first place.

Women's gym memberships are gender segregated for two reasons. Women and girls- and anyone labeled as women and girls, regardless of true identity- are frequently not afforded the same access to resources as cisgender men and boys. Women and girls- and anyone labeled such- are frequently at high risk of predatory sexual behavior and physical violence. Both of these problems are symptoms of a larger system of misogyny at play, and both of these problems directly affect trans men especially those who have not transitioned in a way that makes them pass for cis men.

Regardless of the truth of my identity, the reality is that I was seen as and treated as a girl when it came to physical fitness, and thus barred from the same activities freely offered to the boys. Regardless of the truth of my identity, I have experienced predatory sexual behavior from cis men as young as 8 or 9 years old, continuing past when I came out and began to transition socially.

If the problem is not addressed, cis women cannot re-integrate with cis men. But, additionally, if the problem is not addressed, the choice still remains clear for trans men. Detransition, stay closeted, or go without.

A common complaint of trans men is the invisibility and erasure our demographic faces. It should be easy to see why this happens. The problem of a misogynistic society is one that continues to this day, and without addressing the problem we cannot hope for success in creating a more inclusive space. At the same time, trans men are being pushed out and isolated as they realize they must make a choice.

As for social gatherings, such as a woman's retreat or a woman's music festival? Of course, it may sound odd to say that a trans man should feel welcome there. But the truth of the matter is the majority of the trans men asking for the ability to stay are trans men who have been within that space for years already, prior to coming out, prior to realizing some things about their genders, prior to taking their first steps as men.

I'm pretty good friends with an older butch who told me that I am the first person they ever told that they were a nonbinary man. This person is in their 50s. They're married. But the wife doesn't like it, and they love their wife too much to cause friction in the relationship, so they keep it to themselves, and they keep quiet, and they don't say anything about being transgender, but in their head they aren't a woman. This person is not a woman, by their own insistence. Should this person be forcibly ejected from their local lesbian community, which they and the wife helped form decades ago? Should they divorce their wife, since that would make her not a lesbian anymore?

What harm is it, truly, to allow this person to stay? Social isolation kills people. The trans man suicide statistics are just as abysmal as any of the others I've mentioned here. Forcing someone to burn 20, 30, 40 years of their lives and their friends and their achievements because they are finally living as themselves is a deeply hurtful and isolating experience.

The majority of trans men asking to be included in these spaces are not trans men like me- who never really jived with the idea of womanhood and distanced ourselves as much as possible the moment we saw the opportunity. They are men like my friend, often existing outside of the binary, often with a deep love and appreciation for womanhood despite realizing that perhaps the label does not fit them as well as they once thought. They often have many years of connection, entire lives spent intwined in these spaces.

What good does it do to chase them out? What harm does it to do let them stay?

[lugiadepression]

So that's how native Hawaiians and native Americans, and everyone whom British fucked over, and now germans can fuck themselves too I guess. Palestinians too.

No. I don't want people coming here to marry toddler/children girls, mutilate baby boys, and rape women because womens are object to their people.

Counties are struggling enough to keep their infrastructure and everything from crashing already.

There are so many reasons why this shouldn't be allowed.

I feel bad for people struggling, but putting others into a bad/worse situation isn't/shouldn't be the answer you are looking for.

its so fucked up how difficult it is to move to another country you shouldn’t need a reason or anything you should be able to show up at the border and be like “the vibes were off back home” and they should let you in

[halfmoonaria]

change of plans

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: tara was going to take care of it—end things for good—but nothing went the way she planned.

word count: 9.6k

warnings: dark themes, murder intent, violence, strong language, intrusive thoughts, implied stalking.

Tara didn't think she was a jealous person.

She was sure of it, actually.

Jealousy wasn't something she dealt with, at least not in the same way other people did. She told herself she wasn't the type to stew over what someone else had or waste time feeling resentful.

But looking back, there were moments—small, fleeting ones—that didn't quite fit the version of herself she liked to believe in.

When she was little, the first spark of that unfamiliar emotion would hit when someone snatched a toy out of her hands. It wasn't sadness or disappointment—it was sharper, hotter, and before she even realized what she was doing, she'd yank the toy back, sometimes with enough force to send the other kid stumbling.

She didn't mean to hurt them, not really, but the instinct to make things fair—or at least fair by her standards—was too strong to ignore.

Her teachers called it "trouble controlling her temper." Her mom called it a "phase." But it kept happening.

There was the time in first grade when another girl in her class got to play the fairy princess during dress-up. Tara had been stuck with the frog costume.

She'd sulked in the corner, watching the other girl twirl around in sparkly wings, until something inside her snapped. The girl didn't see it coming when Tara stomped up, grabbed the glittery wand, and broke it clean in two.

She didn't even regret it until she was sitting in the principal's office with her mom glaring at her from across the room.

By the time she was nine, Tara had lost count of how many times she'd been dragged to the teacher's office. Sometimes it was for yanking a classmate's hair after they showed off a new toy she didn't have. Other times, it was for shoving someone too hard during recess when she thought they were bragging about something they shouldn't have.

Her teachers always asked the same question: "Why did you do it, Tara?"

She never had a good answer.

Her mom tried everything—calming techniques, time-outs, grounding her from TV or playdates—but none of it worked.

The truth was, Tara didn't know why it bothered her so much when someone else got what she wanted. All she knew was that the feeling burned in her chest, hot and heavy, until she had to do something to let it out.

She couldn't pinpoint what the feeling was, not even as she got older—when she was supposed to be able to handle her emotions better, to control the bursts of anger and the bubbling rage that seemed to come out of nowhere.

It wasn't jealousy though. She was sure of that.

Jealousy felt petty, childish, like something people dealt with in middle school when they saw someone else wearing the same pair of shoes but in a better color. Tara wasn't petty, and she definitely wasn't childish. At least, that's what she told herself every time the heat rose to her face, her fists clenched so tight her nails dug into her palms, and her vision blurred with that same fiery haze she'd felt since kindergarten.

It didn't make sense to call it jealousy. Jealousy implied weakness, didn't it? Like you couldn't be happy for someone else because you wanted what they had. Tara didn't think she wanted what anyone else had—she just hated the idea that they had it at all.

She didn't think it was anywhere close to jealousy—not until Chad broke up with her.

At first, all she felt was heartbreak, raw and overwhelming, the kind of sadness that made her chest feel hollow and heavy all at once. There was anger too, bubbling beneath the surface, but she pushed it down, unwilling to let him see that part of her. Tara told herself that staying calm was the only way to keep control of the situation, even as she listened to him try to explain himself.

He had said he didn't feel the same anymore, that something between them had changed. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but he no longer felt the love they once had. His voice had been quiet, hesitant, as if he didn't want to hurt her more than he already was. He told her it wasn't her fault, that she'd been a great girlfriend and that he still cared about her.

The words sounded like they should've been comforting, but they weren't. They only made her feel worse. Love didn't just disappear, did it? And if it did, what did that say about her? She couldn't wrap her head around how everything could change so quickly, how something that had seemed so solid could slip through her fingers without warning.

For days after the breakup, she replayed his words in her mind, searching for some clue, some sign she might have missed. The sadness lingered, a constant ache she couldn't shake, and when the anger flared, she shoved it back down where it belonged. It wouldn't change anything, and it wouldn't bring him back.

At first, she thought heartbreak was all she'd have to contend with. But then, as the days stretched into weeks, another feeling began to creep in—something darker, sharper, and impossible to ignore.

That dark, sharper, and impossible-to-ignore feeling had only grown worse. In fact, it had become unbearable when she saw Chad a few weeks later.

With you.

She hadn't been prepared for it. In hindsight, maybe she should've been. They had gone to the same school—it had only been a matter of time before she ran into him again. But Tara hadn't expected him to look so... fine. Like nothing had happened. Like breaking up with her hadn't fazed him in the slightest. And she especially hadn't expected to see him with someone else.

You had been standing next to him near the lockers, your body slightly turned toward his as you spoke. She hadn't been able to hear what you were saying, but whatever it had been, it had made him laugh. That same, familiar laugh that had once been hers to hear.

Her chest had tightened, the weight of it pressing down on her like a physical force. It had been the first time she had seen him since the breakup, and heartbreak hadn't been what she had felt then. No, it had been something else entirely. It had been hot and all-consuming, curling its way through her like wildfire.

Her gaze had locked on the way you had reached out, your fingers briefly brushing his arm as you spoke. It had been such a casual, effortless gesture, but to Tara, it had felt deliberate. She had clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she had struggled to steady her breathing.

She hadn't wanted to look at you. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge the way your presence, your closeness to Chad, had made her feel. But she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away.

It hadn't been fair. Chad wasn't supposed to move on so quickly. He wasn't supposed to look this happy, not when she had still been trying to piece herself back together. And you—God, you hadn't been supposed to be so... perfect. So at ease, standing there with him like you had belonged.

Tara's stomach had churned, a bitter taste rising in her throat. The feeling bubbling inside her had been almost painfully familiar, a twisted echo of the jealousy she had felt as a child.

She could still remember the heat of it, the way it had burned through her tiny body when someone had gotten the last cookie in class or taken the swing she had wanted on the playground.

Back then, her jealousy had been wild and unrestrained, often spilling out as anger—pushing, hitting, shouting until someone had intervened.

But this hadn't been the same. She wasn't a kid anymore, and she had known better than to lash out. And yet, the anger had simmered beneath the surface, waiting for her to slip, to let it spill over.

Her jaw had tightened as she had forced herself to look away, her fists clenching at her sides. Chad hadn't been hers anymore, she had reminded herself, no matter how much she had wanted him to be.

She hadn't had the right to feel this way, to be so consumed by jealousy over someone who had clearly moved on.

But knowing that hadn't made it stop. The jealousy had still been there, sharp and unrelenting, twisting inside her like a knife.

It had dug in deeper with every passing day, lodging itself in a part of her she didn't know how to reach, let alone remove.

It didn't help that Tara knew exactly who you were. Of course she did—everyone in Woodsboro seemed to know everyone.

The town was too small for anyone to go unnoticed, their business too easily whispered about or pieced together.

She had known who you were since kindergarten, though, in moments like these, it felt like a cruel twist of fate that you hadn't been one of the kids she'd shoved in a fit of childish rage.

Maybe if you had been, she wouldn't feel so powerless now. She could have at least claimed to have gotten her frustration out once, a long time ago. But no. You had been one of the few to escape her younger wrath, and somehow that made this worse.

It wasn't just that, though. Tara couldn't think about you without hearing her mother's voice in the back of her mind, muttering something about how she wished Tara were "more like you."

Her mother said things like that about plenty of kids, especially when Tara landed herself in trouble at school. But the way she spoke about you had always felt different—like she meant it.

You were polite, diligent, the kind of kid parents liked to hold up as an example. Tara had hated it back then, hearing those comparisons tossed her way whenever she acted out. Now, remembering it made her blood boil.

You weren't a stranger to her. Not really. How could you be when Wes had spent all of middle school hopelessly infatuated with you? His crush had been embarrassingly obvious, even to people who weren't paying attention.

Tara remembered the way he'd stumble through his sentences whenever you so much as glanced in his direction. How he'd linger near your locker as though working up the courage to say something, only to turn red and scurry off when Amber caught him at it.

Amber had loved teasing him for it. She'd nudge his arm and whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, calling him love-struck and pitiful. And Tara? She'd roll her eyes and laugh right along with her.

She hadn't understood the appeal back then. Sure, you were nice. Polite, from what people said. But to Tara, you'd just been another person in the hallways, someone she could name but not care much about. Wes's hopeless pining had been little more than background noise to her.

But now... now that memory left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Not that she'd ever had a real problem with you. If anything, she'd been indifferent toward you all these years. You were nice, she supposed. Everyone said so, and it wasn't hard to believe.

You dressed well enough to stand out without trying too hard, cared enough about your grades to keep them respectable, and generally managed to avoid any kind of trouble. There wasn't much about you that people could complain about.

Tara hadn't spoken to you much. Maybe a couple of times, when group projects forced you together or when politeness demanded it. But it had never gone beyond that, never lingered in a way that mattered. You were a passing presence, just one of the many faces she'd seen over the years, easily forgotten once you were out of sight.

At least, that was how it used to be.

Now, it felt like you were everywhere. And worse, you weren't just a face in the crowd anymore. You were always laughing, always smiling, always looking so damn perfect. And you weren't alone. You were with Chad. His arm slung around your shoulders like you were his.

And that, Tara couldn't ignore.

You were with her Chad. Her boyfriend.

Or at least, that's what her mind insisted on calling him, despite the breakup. Despite everything. He was still hers. He had to be. There was no way he wasn't, not when she could still feel the ghost of his hand in hers, not when her chest tightened every time she thought about him laughing at something you said. It wasn't right. It didn't feel right.

You didn't belong under his arm like that. You didn't belong anywhere near him.

Tara's jaw clenched as the image burned itself deeper into her memory: the way his arm had draped over your shoulders so effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn't. It couldn't be. That spot was hers—had been hers for so long that seeing anyone else there made her stomach twist with something jagged and unbearable.

And it didn't help that you didn't even look good there. Not to her, anyway. You didn't fit the way she did. You didn't mold into his side like you belonged there, not like she had. Chad was tall, broad-shouldered, and Tara had always thought they looked balanced together. She'd fit neatly under his arm, a perfect complement to his size and presence. You? You just looked... wrong.

At least, that's what she told herself as her eyes lingered on you for too long, darting between the way you smiled at him and the way he smiled back at you.

Her chest tightened further, the edges of her jealousy sharpening with every second.

She tried to tell herself not to care. Really, she did. She told herself that it didn't matter anymore, that Chad wasn't hers, that this—whatever this was—wasn't her business. He had every right to move on. She even tried repeating it in her head, like some kind of mantra: It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.

But it didn't work. It never worked.

It wasn't just the jealousy, though that was certainly the loudest emotion screaming in her chest. It was the helplessness that came with it. The same helplessness she'd felt back in kindergarten, when that dark, fiery feeling had bubbled up inside her and she hadn't known what to do with it. Back then, she'd pushed people, shoved them, let her rage and frustration spill out in any way it could.

Now? Now she was older. Supposedly more mature. She was supposed to be able to handle her emotions, wasn't she? But standing there, watching Chad lean into you, laugh at something you said like it was the funniest thing in the world, Tara felt that same fiery frustration rise in her chest.

She didn't shove people anymore—didn't let that dark feeling spill out like she used to—but that didn't mean it wasn't still there, simmering just below the surface. And now, as she stood frozen in the hallway, all of it—every last ounce of it—was directed at you.

Because you didn't belong there.

You didn't belong with Chad.

You didn't belong in the picture she still couldn't stop replaying in her head: you laughing at something he said, him pulling you closer, the two of you looking... happy.

Tara bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste blood. She told herself to turn away, to stop looking, to let it go. But it was impossible. Just like it had been when she was five years old, that feeling burned too brightly, clawed at her too viciously to ignore.

And now, as she stared at you from across the hallway, she realized she didn't know how to make it stop.

She couldn't stop seeing it—couldn't stop feeling it. You and him. It was burned into her mind, an image so vivid it felt like it had been seared there with a branding iron. Every time she closed her eyes, it was there. You and Chad. Laughing together. Holding hands. Kissing.

Tara's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She hated it. She hated you.

She hated the way you were always smiling, like you didn't have a care in the world. She hated the way you stood so close to him every day, the way his arm so casually rested on your shoulders. She hated the way you looked at him, and the way he looked at you. Like you were the only person in the room. Like you were perfect.

You weren't even that cute. That's what she tried to tell herself, over and over again. You weren't anything special. There were plenty of other girls in Woodsboro prettier than you, smarter than you, more interesting than you.

But it was a lie.

Because you were beautiful.

You were effortlessly beautiful in a way that made Tara's stomach churn. She hated the fact that she couldn't use your looks as an excuse. She hated how good you looked with Chad, how perfect you seemed together, how easy it was to see why he'd chosen you.

And that made her hatred burn even brighter.

Most nights, she couldn't sleep. The second her head hit the pillow, her mind would start spinning, and the thoughts would creep in—dark, ugly thoughts that wrapped around her like a vice. She could see it so clearly, almost like it was happening right in front of her.

You touching him in places she was supposed to touch. You undressing him, his hands roaming over your body instead of hers. You kissing him, making him moan, sitting on top of him—doing all the things she was supposed to do.

It made her blood boil. It made her want to scream.

The images were relentless, vivid and visceral, and every one of them felt like a knife twisting deeper into her chest. Sometimes, the anger was so sharp it made her want to claw at her own skin, like she could rip the feeling out of herself if she just tried hard enough.

But no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to push the thoughts away, they always came back. They stayed with her, haunting her like a ghost she couldn't escape.

And every time, the hatred burned hotter.

It wasn't fair. You weren't supposed to have him. You weren't supposed to be in his arms, weren't supposed to hear his laugh up close, weren't supposed to know what his lips felt like. You didn't deserve any of it. You didn't deserve him.

He was hers. He'd always been hers.

But now, he wasn't.

And it was all because of you.

And this wasn't like any other time. Not even close.

Tara had always known her temper was a problem. She'd been told that enough times growing up—by her teachers, by her mom, by anyone who'd had the misfortune of crossing her when she was angry. But this? This was different.

She'd never felt this way before.

She'd tried everything to stop it, to keep herself from unraveling. Everything her mom had suggested back when she'd first started noticing how intense Tara's outbursts could be. Taking deep breaths, counting to ten, picturing a happy place—none of it worked. It never had.

And when her mom's suggestions fell flat, Tara had turned to the internet, searching desperately for anything that might help. Techniques to control anger, ways to keep herself calm, tips to avoid losing her temper. She'd read every article she could find, watched every video, tried every trick. Not because she cared about managing her emotions—no, she just wanted to avoid her mom forcing her into some anger management program or therapy session she'd be stuck in for months.

But now? Now, she couldn't even pretend to have control. Nothing worked. Nothing.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her skin prickled with heat, and the jealousy burned so hot and sharp that she felt like she was coming apart at the seams. It wasn't just anger anymore. It was something else entirely, something darker and more consuming.

Tara felt insane.

Because no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to push it down or ignore it, the feeling wouldn't go away. It wrapped around her like a second skin, suffocating and unbearable, until there was only one thought left in her mind:

She had to get rid of you.

It wasn't even a question anymore. It was a fact, plain and simple. There was no other way to fix this, no other way to make the feelings stop. You had to go.

At first, Tara thought about spreading a rumor or two. Nothing big, just enough to make you and Chad fight. Enough to plant a seed of doubt, to tear apart whatever connection you had with him. It sounded perfect at first—until she realized how easily it could blow up in her face.

Chad would figure it out eventually. He'd find out Tara was behind it, and then she'd lose any chance of getting him back.

She thought about telling you to leave, to move away, to go anywhere but here. But that was ridiculous. You'd never listen.

She thought about kidnapping you.

The thought came and went so quickly it almost startled her. For a split second, her mind flickered to the idea of forcing you out of the picture entirely, taking control in a way that left no room for argument.

But no. That was insane.

...Wasn't it?

Tara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to hurt. She was spiraling. She knew it. But she couldn't stop.

Nothing else would work. Nothing except you being gone.

She didn't know how, she didn't know when, but Tara knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You couldn't stay.

You didn't belong here. You didn't belong with Chad. You didn't belong anywhere near him, near her, near this town.

You didn't belong anywhere.

And Tara? Tara was going to make sure of it.

She toyed with possibilities. But none of them seemed right.

Kidnapping you crossed her mind more than once though. Briefly.

But it was stupid, insane.

Because what would she do when she had you?

Just keep you there?

It seemed suiting, but it wouldn't work out.

But she couldn't help thinking it—if only because she was running out of options.

And then, the thought hit her. It came out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, like a knife to the gut.

She could kill you.

At first, the thought had hit her like a slap to the face, sharp and jarring in its absurdity. It had seemed insane. Because it was insane. What kind of person even thought something like that, let alone seriously considered it?

But as the days dragged on, the idea didn't fade. If anything, it took root. The more Tara thought about it, the less insane it seemed. Her anger, that relentless, boiling rage, started to simmer. It didn't disappear entirely—not even close—but it

lessened.

For the first time in weeks, she could breathe.

The idea itself was enough at first. She didn't need to act on it. Just thinking about it was enough to bring her some semblance of peace. She let the fantasy play out in her mind like a sick little movie: you, out of the picture, gone forever. It didn't matter how or when—just that it happened.

And for a few days, she was happy with just that. She let herself exist in that space, in the calm that came with imagining a world where you didn't exist. A weekend of relative peace, of daydreams that made her anger feel manageable.

But then Monday came.

And Tara saw you again.

You were standing in the hallway, smiling up at Chad like he was the only person in the world. His arm was slung casually around your shoulders, his head tilted toward yours in that stupid, familiar way that made Tara's stomach twist.

It was like being set on fire all over again.

Her chest burned, her vision blurred, and that fleeting peace she'd found over the weekend vanished in an instant. The rage came roaring back, hotter and more vicious than ever, tearing through her like a wildfire.

Because the thought of you being gone wasn't enough anymore. Not when you were right there, so close, so perfect, so fucking smug without even trying.

Tara's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms until they left crescent-shaped indents. Her jaw tightened, her teeth grinding as she stared at you, as she watched you.

You didn't belong there. You didn't belong under his arm. You didn't belong anywhere near him.

And now? Now, Tara knew what she had to do.

It wasn't a matter of if anymore. It was a matter of when.

Because just thinking about it wasn't enough. Not anymore.

She was going to kill you.

And she was going to feel better for it.

___

Tara had everything prepared.

The thought of it had consumed her, growing like a rock inside her chest, feeding off her every waking moment until it was impossible to ignore.

And now, it was time.

She had spent days balancing on the edge of dread and longing, torn between the weight of what she was about to do and the twisted satisfaction she knew it would bring. It wasn't something she wanted—not really. But it was something she had to do. The only way to end the torment that had been eating away at her since the moment she saw you with him.

So Tara had done her research, gathering every scrap of information she could. She watched you closely—closer than ever. She had listened, observed, bided her time until the perfect opportunity revealed itself.

And it had.

It had been math class on Monday afternoon, and Tara had been lucky enough to snag a seat directly behind you and your friends. Normally, she would've tuned out your conversation entirely, drowning it in her thoughts. But this time, she had leaned in, careful to catch every word.

You'd been talking about the upcoming math test, about how you'd be studying for it Wednesday afternoon. Alone.

Your parents were going to be at some lame work conference, and they'd decided to take your younger brother along to make a trip out of it. You'd rolled your eyes as you explained how stupid it all sounded, but Tara hadn't cared about your opinion.

All she cared about was the opening.

You'd be home. Alone.

It was perfect.

Tara's pencil had hovered over her notebook as she pretended to take notes, but her mind wasn't on algebra. It was spinning with possibilities, with plans, with the kind of clarity that had eluded her for weeks.

When the bell rang and you left the room with your friends, Tara sat frozen in her seat for a moment, her fists clenched around the edge of her desk. The pounding in her chest felt louder than the shuffle of students leaving the classroom, louder than the voices in the hallway.

Because now, it wasn't just an idea.

It was a plan.

Wednesday. After school. It would be done.

And finally, finally, she would feel better.

Wednesday came, and Tara felt something she hadn't in weeks. Happiness.

It wasn't the fleeting, muted kind that came and went without leaving a trace. No, this was sharp, visceral, alive. She could feel it buzzing beneath her skin, coiling around her chest like a warm, electric current.

She didn't remember the last time she'd woken up this excited. It was like every nerve in her body had been lit aflame, pushing her through the motions of her morning routine with a sense of purpose she hadn't felt in so long.

Because today was the day.

Every second that ticked by brought her closer to it. To you. To the end of the endless cycle of rage and jealousy that had consumed her. She could picture it already—vivid, perfect, satisfying.

You'd be scared, of course. How could you not be? She imagined the way your eyes would widen, the way you'd stammer out a pathetic plea. You'd try to push her off, scramble for an escape, but it wouldn't work.

It wouldn't work because you were weak. You weren't like her. You didn't know what it meant to fight, to claw your way through something until you got what you wanted. You'd crumble like paper.

And then you'd be gone.

She could see the aftermath so clearly it almost felt real. Chad, walking through the school corridors alone, his shoulders slumped with the weight of grief. His face twisted in pain as he thought about you.

And then—then he'd come back to her. He had to. It was inevitable, wasn't it? He'd remember how good things were with her, how much better they could be now that you were out of the picture. He'd pull himself to her, broken but needing her to put him back together.

It was all Tara could think about.

The entire day felt like a blur, her mind too preoccupied to focus on anything else. Teachers droned on and on about tests and essays, classmates chatted about meaningless things, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except what was waiting for her after school.

And yet, the anger was still there.

It simmered beneath the surface, coiled tight in her chest, a constant reminder that nothing was done yet. You were still there, still laughing and smiling and making her blood boil with every second that passed.

In English class, she caught sight of you leaning over Chad's desk, your voice low as you explained something to him. Grammar, maybe. Whatever it was, Tara didn't care.

What she cared about was the way he was looking at you. That stupid, soft smile, the same one he used to give her.

It made her stomach turn.

You didn’t even know what you were doing, she thought bitterly, her fists clenching beneath her desk. You didn't know him. You didn't know how to help him, not like she did. You weren't supposed to be there, leaning over his shoulder, pointing at his textbook like you had any idea what you were doing.

Tara's jaw tightened, her teeth grinding together as she stared at the two of you.

But it was fine. It wouldn't matter soon enough.

By the time the final bell rang, she was practically buzzing with anticipation, her hands trembling as she shoved her books into her bag.

Because today was the day.

And by the time it was over, you'd be gone. Forever.

By the time last period rolled around, Tara could barely contain herself. She was bouncing her leg under the desk, the rapid up-and-down movement making the surface wobble slightly. It wasn't stress, though. Not even close.

It was excitement.

Because in just a few hours, everything would be different. You'd be gone.

She'd spent the entire day anticipating this moment, and now that it was so close, she could hardly breathe. Her chest felt tight, but not in the way it used to when the anger consumed her. This was something else—something electric, like a firework waiting to explode.

When the bell finally rang for the last time that day, Tara practically shot out of her seat. Her heart was pounding, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she sprinted to her locker, dodging through the crowded hallway like her life depended on it.

She grabbed her things in a flurry, barely paying attention to what she was stuffing into her bag. The details didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting out of there as quickly as possible.

The walk home was a blur. She couldn't even remember the route she took, but she knew it was fast because she'd gotten there in record time. She practically burst through the door of the apartment, slamming it shut behind her with a force that rattled the frame.

The space was empty, just as she'd hoped. Sam wasn't home, probably still at the café down the street where she worked long shifts most afternoons.

Tara didn't waste any time. She stormed into her room, yanking her bag off her shoulder and dumping its contents onto the bed. Books, hair ties, pens, and random scraps of paper spilled out in a messy heap. She didn't bother organizing any of it, her focus locked on what came next.

She started packing what she'd need instead.

First came the basics: a pair of gloves she'd swiped from the closet, a small hand towel, and a few cleaning supplies she'd found under the sink. Just in case.

Then there was the book. She'd borrowed it from the library earlier that day, an afterthought at the time, but now it served a purpose. If anyone asked what she'd been doing when you turned up dead, she'd have an alibi.

And then there was the knife.

Tara headed to the kitchen, her hands trembling slightly as she opened the drawer where Sam kept the cutlery. She stared at the knives for a moment, her breathing shallow as she considered her options.

Finally, she picked one.

It wasn't the largest or the sharpest, but it felt solid in her grip. Familiar, almost.

She held it for a moment, staring down at the blade as it caught the light. Her reflection stared back at her, warped and fragmented in the metal, but she didn't flinch.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before tucking the knife into her bag.

This was it.

She was ready.

Tara zipped her bag shut and slung it over her shoulder, not even sparing a second thought for the knife or the other incriminating items inside. Evidence of what was about to happen was tucked away in plain sight, but the thought didn't concern her. Why would it? She wasn't going to get caught.

She paused in the doorway of the apartment, pulling out her phone to double-check the address one last time. It was burned into her memory by now, but a quick glance wouldn't hurt. She'd found it easily enough a week ago, scouring the school directory that had been left out in the counselor's office during one of her "mandatory check-ins." Your address had been listed next to your emergency contacts, all neatly typed out.

Perfect.

Satisfied, she slipped her phone back into her pocket and stepped out into the hallway. The stairwell echoed with her footsteps as she made her way down, each step slow and deliberate. She wasn't in a rush. Not yet.

The walk to your house wasn't short, but it wasn't unbearably long either. Just far enough to give her plenty of time to think, to imagine, to savor the anticipation building in her chest like a drug.

Tara was thrilled.

Not just because of what she was about to do, but because of how clever she'd been about it. The idea had struck her like lightning, and the more she thought about it, the more genius it seemed. She wasn't just solving a problem—she was removing it, erasing it entirely.

As she walked, her thoughts grew darker, more vivid. She pictured you in front of her, on your knees, crying and begging her to stop. But she wouldn't stop. She'd pin you down with a strength you couldn't fight against, her hands steady, her resolve unshakable.

Her gaze flicked down to her white Converse, and she pictured them splattered with red. Blood staining the canvas, dripping onto the pavement, marking every step she took.

She imagined your blood on her hands, warm and slick, streaked across her fingers like war paint. She pictured your face as she hovered over you, the way your eyes would widen with fear, the way your mouth would open to scream—only to be silenced.

The image sent a thrill through her, a jolt of satisfaction that made her grin.

To anyone else, these thoughts would be horrifying. Disturbing. Insane.

But to Tara, they were... liberating.

She couldn't wait.

Tara had dreamt about this moment. Every detail had been mapped out in her mind, as vivid and meticulous as if it had already happened. She hadn't missed a single thing while planning it.

She knew exactly how it would go.

You'd answer the door, your steps light as they always seemed to be. When the door swung open, you'd greet her with that confused little smile, the one that would tug at the corner of your lips as you tried to figure out what she was doing there.

She could already imagine the polite mask you'd pull on, hiding the confusion behind your soft smile as you asked—probably in that gentle, saccharine voice Chad loved so much—what she was doing at your house.

And Tara would match your politeness, feigning a warm, almost apologetic smile as she began to speak. She'd tell you that you'd left the classroom before the teacher had a chance to hand you a paper—a makeup assignment for the math test you were apparently struggling with. She'd tell you how she'd volunteered to bring it to you, mentioning offhandedly that your house was "on the way" to hers.

It wasn't.

But you were probably stupid enough to believe it.

Tara could almost see the way you'd nod, your suspicion melting away as you stepped aside to let her in. And that's when she'd set her plan into motion.

She'd unzip her bag slowly, her movements deliberate, casual, as if she really were pulling out a sheet of paper. She'd even keep talking, her voice calm, explaining how the assignment wasn't that difficult, just a review of material you should already know.

But when her hand came out of the bag, it wouldn't be holding any paper.

It would be holding the knife.

The image was so clear in her mind, so vivid that it felt real. She could see the shock on your face, the way your smile would drop, the way your eyes would widen. She'd let you stand there, frozen and clueless, for just a moment before she lunged.

The first stab would be quick, precise. She'd aim for your stomach, the blade plunging in before you had a chance to react. And as you stumbled back, clutching at the wound, she'd step inside, closing the door behind her with her free hand.

It wouldn't stop there. It couldn't.

She'd keep going, stabbing again and again, her movements frenzied but deliberate, each strike fueled by the rage that had been festering inside her for weeks.

By the time you hit the floor, Tara would already be kneeling over you, her knife rising and falling with a terrifying rhythm.

She'd finish it. Completely.

Tara found herself smirking at the thought, her steps quickening as she neared your street. The plan played out in her head like a movie she'd already watched a hundred times, each scene perfectly clear, perfectly executed.

The thought of it all—the fear in your eyes, the blood on her hands, the peace that would finally follow—was almost enough to make her laugh.

By the time she reached your street, her smirk had settled into something more fixed, more certain. The weight of the knife in her bag wasn't something she second-guessed. There was no hesitation in her steps, no flicker of doubt in her mind. She had played this moment over so many times that it felt inevitable, like she was simply walking through a prewritten script.

And then she saw your house.

That perfect, suburban home—one of those places that looked like it had been plucked from a family sitcom. The kind of house where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen. The driveway was empty, just like it was supposed to be. No parents home. No witnesses. But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that you had all of this.

Tara felt her stomach twist in something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite jealousy, but a poisonous mix of both. The house itself was nice—not a mansion, but big enough that she knew you had space that was yours. No sharing. No constantly moving from one place to another. You had stability. The porch light was already on despite the sun still clinging to the sky, because you had parents who actually cared if you got home in the dark.

Parents who were probably normal.

Not like hers.

And it wasn't just the house. It was everything. The car parked on the curb—the one that she knew was yours and not some shared family vehicle. The way your front yard was neatly kept, the way there was a welcome mat in front of the door, the way it all screamed a life she never had.

It made her hate you even more.

But that hate only made her more certain. Because soon, none of it would matter. Your perfect house, your caring parents, your stupid little car—they would all be meaningless.

Soon, the only thing you'd have was a gravestone with your name carved into it.

And that made her happy.

Tara forced herself to relax as she walked up the front steps, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. She let out a slow breath, schooling her expression into something neutral. She wasn't just about to commit murder—no, she was just a classmate doing a favor, dropping off an assignment.

The thought almost made her laugh.

She reached the front door, lifting a fist and knocking twice against the wood.

The house was quiet. Peaceful.

But soon, Tara imagined, it would be fuller.

Fuller with screams.

And then—she heard it.

A soft, thoughtless hum from the other side of the door. Light, airy, clueless.

Her hands twitched at her sides, damp with sweat before she even realized it. A sick, twisted heat pooled in her stomach, curling around her ribs like a vice, because for the first time all day, something foreign crawled up her spine.

Nerves.

Real, undeniable, nerves.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

No. No. That wasn't right. She had waited for this.

She had planned, dreamed, prepared for this exact moment. She was supposed to feel good. Excited.

Not like this.

Not like her body had turned against her.

Tara's jaw tightened, anger sparking white-hot beneath her skin, because that was your fault, too.

Of course, it was.

You were the one who made her feel this way. You were the reason her mind had been tangled in knots for weeks, the reason she couldn't breathe without choking on the thought of you, the reason everything felt so wrong.

And that was why she was here.

She sucked in a sharp breath, planting her feet firmly on the doorstep, pushing the shaking from her hands, the sweat from her palms.

Because it didn't matter.

It didn't matter that her heart was hammering against her ribs. It didn't matter that her mind was racing.

All that mattered was that you were coming.

And then—

A quiet shuffle of footsteps.

Closer.

Tara's stomach twisted.

Another step.

And another.

The shadow of movement from behind the glass.

And then—

The door clicked as the lock turned.

The handle shifted.

And Tara stopped breathing.

The door swung open.

And there you were.

Tara didn't know what she had expected. She had run through this moment in her head too many times to count, had pictured every detail—the way you'd react, the way she'd feel, the way it would finally happen. But none of those versions had prepared her for the real thing.

Because the real thing was you—standing there, so normal, so alive in a way that made something tighten in her chest.

You hadn't even looked to see who it was before your lips curled into a soft, polite smile, like answering the door and finding someone waiting for you was just another part of your evening. Like she was just another part of your evening.

And Tara—

Tara froze.

Her grip tightened around the strap of her bag, fingers stiff, nails pressing into her palm. The weight of it suddenly felt too heavy, dragging her down, pinning her in place.

You weren't looking at her yet, not fully, but she could see the moment it registered. The way your eyes flickered, widening just a little before settling, before you adjusted.

Tara swallowed hard, throat dry.

She hadn't planned for this—for the way time seemed to slow, for the way her pulse slammed against her ribs, not in anger but in something else, something unreadable. She had prepared for every possible scenario, had thought through every single step. She knew exactly what she had to do.

So why the fuck wasn't she doing it?

Why was she standing there, frozen, when this was exactly what she had been waiting for?

Her stomach twisted, a sick, sudden nausea creeping in.

She had to say something.

She had to move.

But she just stood there, staring.

It was like her body had short-circuited, her mind blanking out in a way it never did. She had pictured this moment a hundred times, had mapped it out in her head with a precision so sharp it felt real—but now? Now, standing in front of you, with your stupid soft smile and your wide, expectant eyes, everything felt wrong.

She was supposed to have control.

She was supposed to speak first.

But before she could force a single word out of her mouth—

"Oh my God, Tara!"

Your voice hit her like a slap to the face.

Not just because of the voice—bright, warm, too friendly for what this moment was meant to be—but because of how you said her name.

Wrong.

You stretched out the A like it belonged there, like you had never even considered the right way to say it.

Tara's stomach twisted, her nose scrunching slightly before she could stop it.

She hated when people did that.

It wasn't even complicated. It wasn't hard.

Tara. Short. Sharp. Simple.

Why the fuck would it be anything else?

But then—before she could even say anything, before she could snap at you the way she wanted to—you noticed.

Not in the way most people did.

You didn't fumble over yourself, didn't look nervous, didn't react like someone who had just made a mistake in front of the wrong person.

No.

You just... realized.

"Oh—sorry. It's Tara, right?"

And this time, you said it right.

Tara felt something hot crawl up her spine.

You didn't wait for her to correct you.

You didn’t need her to tell you you were wrong.

You figured it out on your own.

And yet, you still smiled.

"I'm sorry, I totally suck at names," you added, your voice easy, a small, amused sigh slipping through a quiet giggle.

A giggle.

Like this was nothing.

Like you weren't standing in your doorway, staring at someone who had come here to kill you.

Tara's grip on her bag tightened.

You weren't nervous.

Not even a little.

Why weren't you nervous?

You were supposed to be. Yet she was the one that was.

Tara didn't know what the fuck was happening to her.

This wasn't right.

She was supposed to be in control. She was supposed to be sharp, precise, already halfway inside your house by now, setting her plan into motion.

But instead, she stood there.

Frozen.

Silent.

She couldn't speak.

Her body acted before her mind caught up, lips pressing together in something barely resembling a smile. Thin. Tense. Fake.

"It's fine," she mumbled, her voice lower than she intended.

It wasn't fine.

Nothing about this was fine.

And yet, you still didn't ask her what she was doing here.

You didn't look suspicious. You didn't hesitate. You didn't ask.

Tara could feel something bubbling in her chest, frustration twisting in with something else, something hotter, sharper.

Why weren't you asking?

Why weren't you wary?

Why weren't you treating her like a stranger who had no reason to be on your doorstep?

But before she could dwell on it for too long, your face lit up even more—

And you started talking.

"I've actually been wanting to speak to you for a while."

Your voice was too warm. Too light.

Tara's jaw clenched.

"This whole thing with Chad..."

You trailed off, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear, tilting your head ever so slightly as your eyes flicked to her face—

Waiting.

Waiting to see if she reacted to his name.

And fuck, she did.

She hated that she did.

But you didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe you did, but you didn't care.

You just continued, words spilling out like you had been holding them in for too long.

"I wanted to ask if you guys were fine before... yeah, you know."

Tara didn't need you to finish that sentence.

She knew exactly what you meant.

Before you.

Before Chad moved on.

Before you ruined everything.

Her nails dug into the strap of her bag.

And still, you didn't stop talking.

"I know we're not friends and barely know each other," you admitted, still looking at her with that same softness. That genuine fucking softness that made her stomach twist in ways it shouldn't.

"But you're really nice," you went on.

Tara almost laughed at that.

Nice.

You thought she was nice.

And then—

"I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable or, you know... secretly hate me."

The way you said it was almost casual, like it was just a thought, something light, something small—

But Tara felt her heartbeat slam against her ribs.

You didn't know.

You had no idea.

And for the first time since she got here, she felt a flicker of something close to panic.

You didn't hate her.

You weren't afraid of her.

You thought she was nice.

What the fuck was she supposed to do with that?

Tara tried to reason with herself.

If she just did it now, everything would be fine.

If she just said what she planned to say, if she reached for her bag, if she pulled out the knife instead—

It would be over.

It would be done.

You would be nothing but a mess on the floor, and Chad would be devastated, and he would come crawling back, and everything would go back to how it was supposed to be.

So why wasn't she moving?

Her fingers twitched against the strap of her bag, but her body stayed rooted to the spot.

She wanted to.

Oh, how she wanted to.

She had dreamed about this moment.

Had imagined the way you'd look at her—terrified, confused, realizing too late what was about to happen.

She had longed for it.

And yet—

She couldn't.

For some stupid, inexplicable reason, she couldn't.

Something in her wouldn't let her.

What the fuck was she even thinking earlier?

Why did she think this would be easy?

Why did she think she could just walk up here and do it like it was nothing?

Her head felt too full, a war raging behind her eyes, pushing, pulling, twisting.

She wasn't supposed to hesitate.

She wasn't supposed to second-guess herself.

She was supposed to kill you.

So why was it suddenly feeling impossible?

You studied her face as she stood there, silent.

To you, it probably looked like she was still hurt over Chad.

Like she was standing here, struggling to find the right words, caught up in old feelings she hadn't moved past yet.

And when she didn't answer, you didn't take it the way you should have.

You didn't question why she was just standing there.

You didn't wonder why she was looking at you like that, like something wasn't clicking in her head.

Instead—you invited her in.

You stepped back, opening the door a little wider, glancing at her with the same warm expression you had greeted her with.

"Do you want to come inside?"

Tara blinked.

For a second, she thought she misheard you.

But you weren't kidding.

You were actually letting her in.

You, the person she had been planning to kill, were offering to welcome her into your home.

You didn't even know her.

And when she didn't immediately respond, you just smiled a little and added, "Only if you want to."

That was it.

No hesitation. No suspicion. No fear.

Why weren't you scared of her?

Why weren't you acting like someone who was about to die?

Her fingers clenched tighter around the strap of her bag.

She should leave.

She should end this.

She should do what she came here to do.

And yet—

Almost without thinking, she found herself nodding.

Slowly, stiffly.

And then she was stepping inside.

Her body was acting on its own, ignoring the part of her mind still screaming at her to just fucking do it already.

She heard you close the door behind her.

She stood there, fists tightening at her sides, eyes flickering around your house—your nice, warm, safe house that made her sick.

And then you were talking again, so casually, so easily.

"I'm trying to study for the math test, but it's not going really well."

You let out a small, light laugh, like this was nothing.

Like she was just a friend stopping by instead of a fucking killer in your home.

Tara didn't know why she followed you.

Why her feet carried her further inside instead of turning around and doing what she was supposed to do.

She barely processed the way you walked ahead of her, leading her through the house like she belonged there.

Like she wasn't holding a knife in her bag.

Like she wasn't planning to use it.

Her fingers curled tighter around the strap, knuckles aching from the pressure, but she still didn't stop.

She stepped past the entryway, eyes flickering over everything she could see—the framed artwork on the walls, the coat rack near the door, the way the house smelled warm, lived in. There was something painfully normal about all of it. Too normal. It made her stomach turn.

And then her gaze landed on it.

The photo sitting neatly on the shelf above the couch.

She didn't mean to stop. Didn't mean to let her focus linger. But she did.

It was you.

Your family.

Your mom, your dad, your little brother.

All of you smiling, arms wrapped around each other like you had never known anything but happiness.

Her throat burned.

Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped their hands around her ribs and squeezed.

She didn't know why.

She didn't fucking know why.

All she knew was that she hated that picture.

Hated the way you had that.

Hated the way she couldn't even imagine a photo like that of her own family.

Most definitely not framed in the living room.

Her mouth pressed into a hard line, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag.

The weight of the knife sat heavy inside, like it was taunting her.

She should reach for it.

She should pull it out and remind herself why she was here.

But her body still wouldn't move.

And that made her furious.

Why the fuck was she just standing here?

Why wasn't she doing anything?

It would be so easy.

A few steps. A flick of her wrist.

Blood against the perfect little life you had.

A stain.

A reminder that nothing was ever really safe.

So why couldn't she do it?

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else—until your voice cut through the haze.

"Tara?"

She blinked.

Snapped back to the moment.

You were looking at her now, head slightly tilted, waiting for her to follow you further inside.

She forced her jaw to unclench, tearing her eyes away from the photo and moving again.

She followed you into the living room.

And that was when she saw the mess of notes and open notebooks spread out across the coffee table.

Pens scattered. Pages half-filled with numbers and formulas. Homework left abandoned mid-thought.

She stared.

She didn't even know why.

Maybe it was because it was so normal.

Like you had no idea what was standing right in front of you.

Like she wasn't supposed to be anything other than some classmate stopping by with an assignment.

Her fingers twitched against the strap of her bag.

Maybe if she just—

Your voice cut through the silence again, still light, still unbothered.

"You can sit down if you want."

You motioned toward the couch, as if this was just normal.

As if she wasn't standing in your house, her heart hammering, her mind completely unraveling.

Tara swallowed hard, forcing her feet forward.

One step.

Then another.

She made it halfway across the room before stopping again, her breath catching somewhere in her throat.

She shouldn't be here.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She should just grab the knife, should just do what she fucking came here to do.

But she couldn't.

And she didn’t know why.

[theyluvpeach]

too high to care.

you and chris smoke together, stuff ensues. client!chris x dealer!reader blurb!!

warnings.ᐟ.ᐟ: not connected to your vibes are off. sub!chris... you saw this coming. softdom! reader. bj. praise. use of ma. thas it :)

He's so screwed. The only reason he's in your apartment is because Matt said he was busy, so you extended his invitation onto him. He just wanted to relax a little bit is all, but as he stepped foot into your apartment, he remembered even though that you annoy him you're hot as hell.

How is he supposed to focus on you telling him what you're putting in the joint if your panties are peeking out from your shorts? They're pink with lace that he'd love to run his finger along—

"Chris!"

"Huh?"

"You're not even listening to me! I could be putting whatever in this."

"Nah. You're not evil enough for that." You roll your eyes. His heart feels like it's going to jump out of his chest. He's so glad you didn't catch him staring.

Everything was going well. You guys passed the joint back and forth a few times, and surprisingly, you aren't someone who's super talkative when they're high. The most you did was stare at him from your side of the couch and giggle whenever he asked why you were staring.

"Chris?"

He looks to you. "You're pretty." You mumble. "You're high as fuck."

"I have a high tolerance." You say, slowly crawling towards him. It makes him gulp.

Your shift lifts off your chest, giving him the perfect view of your lacy pink bra— A matching set? Are you trying to kill him?

"Like... really pretty." You say, pausing your movements and stopping in front of him, just for a moment to stare at him, before you're settling in his lap.

His hands find themselves on your hips.

"Kid." Comes out weak and breathless. "Has someone ever called you pretty before?"

"...no." it'd be a whisper if you guys weren't so close. "I'll do it more often then." You say, moving to take off his hood, he stops you. "What are you doing?" He searches your eyes, trying to find an answer for all your actions.

"I wanna see something."

This time, he lets you take off his hood. You give him a smirk before you start running your hands through your hair. "What are you—"

"S all tangled....just let me." He shuts up quickly, flushing as you comb your hair hands through his hair. He flushes.

"Are you blushing?"

"Shut... shut up." It makes you giggle, making him even more embarrassed. He's not used to this, gentle treatment. It's different....a good different.

"Chris." You say, tilting his head to meet your gaze. "Wha-" is all Chris gets out before you're kissing him. Before your hands are slipping under his hoodie and touching his chest, he lets out a soft moan. He feels you smile against his lips.

You're both high, and even though you say you have a high tolerance, he doesn't know how much he believes you because of how red your eyes are. You guys shouldn't be doing this.

But, even then, he still lets you pull his hoodie over his head as he lets out soft pants. "So pretty, Chris." You mumble, shifting your position so you can kiss down his stomach.

His cock twitches in sweatpants. The praise, the kisses. Its too much for his brain to handle. "Mhn- wait— Kid—" He stutters out, grabbing your hair to make you look at him.

"Hey—" How is he supposed to resist you when your lips are jutted out, so dangerously close to the bludge in his sweatpants? "......you really want this, huh?"

"Wanna make you feel good." He bites his lip. He's imagined those words leaving your mouth so many times it's humiliating, "Do you want....?" You ask, tilting your head at him.

Of course he does. He nods. "Cmon. Use your big boy words."

".....want you to make me feel good." The way you smile at him makes him wanna cum right then and there. "Good boy." Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

An embarrassing, needy whine escapes from his lips. He's turning to putty in your hands. You press a soft kiss to his bulge before slipping off the couch onto your knees, making him throw his head back.

"You're so pretty," He can't take the way you're cooing at him, the way you're looking at him with red, lust filled eyes. "So, so, pretty for me, baby." He hisses as his cock slaps against his stomach, finally being freed from his precum stained boxers.

This is all so new. He's never not been the one in control in the bedroom, but here he is. Letting out whimpers because you're calling him pretty.

His hand finds its way back into your hair as you press sloppily kisses up his length. "Y-you're killin' me here, kid—" When you finally make it to his tip, his hips buck against your mouth. He can't take this anymore. He's so hard it hurts.

"Please." He says, low and whiney. "Please?" You tease him. "Do anything, please, please."

You continue your taunting kisses, "I am." He squirms under your touch. "N-no— you're teasing me."

"I'm not," You say, completely letting go of his weeping cock. "You want me to get you off? Use your words." Chris looks at you with teary eyes.

"Suck me off, use your hands—God, do anything just make me cum, please? Please?" The smirk he receives is devilish. "That wasn't so hard was it?"

Chris whines. "Ma, please." You decide to take pity on him, stroking him. "Ah....go...d..." His eyes roll into the back of his head. "Feel good?" He moans loudly. "Y...yeah—"

When you take him into your mouth, he almost screams. "H-holy shit— Wai— wait—" He moans, grabbing at the couch cushions. You eye him, watching the way his face contorts in pleasure.

"If you keep— doing—t-that! M- m gonna cum—!" You hum around his cock, taking him deeper in your mouth. Before you pull off, watching his spit-slicked cock leak pre-cum. "Already?" You say, going back to stroking him.

The tears that pooled in his eyes, escape. You tilt your eyes at him. "You've never been treated like this...have you, Chris?"

"N....no." He chokes out, being interrupted by a loud moan. The way your eyes twinkle at his words makes him bite his cheek. "M gonna make you cum," He watches you press a kiss to his tip, again, as you stroke him. His hips buck against your lips. "But you gotta beg first."

Beg....? Beg? You want him to beg? Chris has never begged in his life. Saying please is one thing, begging on the other hand—

"No!" You stop stroking him. He whines at the loss. "C'mon, Pretty Boy. If you don't beg you're not gonna cum."

He hates you. He hates you so much. "I...please? Needa cum.... Been...been a good boy, haven't I?" He mumbles, his cheeks turning as red as cherry tomatos. He almost screams when you start stroking him again, "There ya go, Pretty."

"Cum— cum— I-I—" His eyes roll back into his head once more, "Gonna!"

You take him into your mouth again, and that's his last straw. "C-cumming!" You keep your lips wrapped around his cock until you're sure he's done cumming, it's a rough swallow.

You're sure if he came anymore, you would've started choking. You press a soft kiss to his inner thigh, and he pants looking at you with hazy eyes.

"You alright, Pretty?"

"I....shut.....mokay." He mutters. You stand up, "Gonna get you a towel n clean you up." He nods slowly before his eyes flutter shut.

He's asleep when you come back.

tags 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚: @inspiredangel @whore4mattsturniolo @dominiqueansel-blog @sosasturns

[coliessions]

friday. it had only been six days, yet you were convinced.

one week wasn’t a long time—not in the grand scheme of things. but with suguru geto, time bent, stretched, and folded into itself, creating something endless in the span of mere days. everything with him was so easy, so natural. like you had known him forever.

you had always been an observer of love, never quite falling in, never quite believing in the way people drowned in it so fast. but suguru had made it feel like the most effortless thing. a puzzle piece you never knew was missing until it fit so perfectly against you.

he wasn’t just there—he was everywhere. in the teasing quips exchanged over shared meals, in the way he remembered the smallest things you mentioned offhand, in the texts that never left you waiting. you’d never known someone to return your energy so completely, to match your thoughts like they had been his all along.

so friday came, and you had already made up your mind.

but suguru had a clock. your one week was almost up.

saturday, you watched him with your heart in your throat. the warmth of the week still lingered in his gaze, in the way he stood so close, in the way he pulled you into another moment that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t temporary.

and then sunday arrived. the last day.

it should have felt normal. nothing had changed, after all. suguru was still suguru. his voice still laced with honey when he spoke to you, his presence still magnetic. and yet, there was something in the air that hadn't been there before. a finality you couldn’t quite place.

you told yourself you were imagining it. that you were being dramatic. but when the night rolled in and you found yourself beside him, you knew.

"suguru," you started, feeling the weight of the question before you even asked it, "what happens now?"

his silence was telling. so was the way he looked away, inhaling like he was about to speak, only to exhale instead.

"this past week..." he said softly, rolling the words in his mouth like he was trying to savor them one last time. "it was amazing."

was. past tense.

"but?"

his jaw clenched, and that was the final confirmation.

"i can't."

two words, spoken so gently it made them hurt even more.

you already knew what he meant, but the silence stretched so long between you that you forced yourself to ask anyway. "why?"

he sighed, like the answer was obvious, like it wasn’t tearing something apart inside of him too. "there's too much at stake. my career. my friends. myself."

you swallowed around the lump in your throat. "and me?"

his lips parted slightly before he pressed them shut, gaze flickering with something that almost looked like guilt. "you deserve more than half of someone."

but that was the thing, wasn’t it? for one week, he had given you everything. and now, he was taking it all back.

you should have seen it coming. because a fire that bright was never meant to last. because love that felt like fate shouldn't have had a countdown. but it did. and you weren't above it.

suguru geto had a clock.

and your time was up.

[mxtantrights]

Beggin' on my knees, baby won't you please

paring: Johnny Storm x fem!reader a/n: okayyyy so like I watched the trailer like everyone else and remembered how much of a crush I had on the human torch. and I would say that while writing this I could envision both the new and old castings so you can read it as who you want! I might come back to this with another piece or two. (I write with a black reader in mind but this piece doesn't specify race, only gender)

Johnny Storm has stopped at almost nothing to get you to go on a date with him. He's persistent, he's flirty, and most dangerously he's not too far off from his goal.

You had been Sue's intern since you took her class a couple of years ago at the university. She had seen in you what she knew she had in herself when she was a student. The grit, the knowledge and the courage to ask why.

She took you under her wing fairly quickly. You found her to be more of a friend than a boss. She always listened to your ideas, though she never played favorites. And she valued your input on important things.

Such as the specs for the flight she, Reed, Ben, and Johnny would be on in the coming months.

You don't really have time to be going on dates with anyone, let alone with Johnny, when you were going to be sending him along with the others into space. It kept you up at night sometimes. If your calculations were triple checked. If you had tested every hypothetical.

That is why for the past week you've been avoiding Johnny. If you see him in the caf, you go the other way and get lunch from outside. If you see him hanging around your lab you wait him out. You're quick to leave with the other workers so he won't offer you a ride.

It's been going well.

Up until now.

You manage to take another peek into the lab. The glass window that appears across from your desk. And there he is. He's sitting in your rolling chair, waiting for you. He's playing with some sort of pen. rolling it between his fingers.

If you avoided him now, he would know for sure. And you have to get to work on a quick fix on confirming the materials needed for the rocket's fins.

With about as much confidence as a cactus in a ballon party. You roll your shoulders back and tug down the white coat that shrouds you. Then you walk over to the door.

As if he's got a heightened sense, he looks up at you as you step through the threshold. You duck your head down and walk over to him. On his face is a growing smirk.

He leans back in the chair, leaning a bit, meaning he totally un-stabilized it. You'll have to re-stabilize it once he's gone.

"Where've you been?" he asks.

You huff a bit at that. As you make it over to your desk you see that's he's rearranged some stuff. You make to move past him but he just rolls with you.

"Johnny, I've been around." you answer finally.

"I know, but just not around me. Which is a same." he pouts.

You chortle, "Oh my god. You can't be serious with that one."

"About as serious as you avoiding me, Specs." he says.

You rolls your eyes. There goes that nickname. To this day you still don't understand why he calls you that. You don't wear your glasses all the time. So what gives?

"I'm just trying to get everything right, Johnny. You are going to space in a few months." you explain.

Johnny opens his legs wider and rolls the chair closer to you. At this angle he's looking right up at you. It's warm and fucking dizzying and you have to remind yourself that even though it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the lab, there are other people here. Your coworkers. His coworkers.

Sue's coworkers.

"I know, but I miss seeing my favorite girl." he admits.

And it shouldn't like it does when he says it. Like he's sharing a secret with you in the middle of the night. Like he's telling you something that is treasured and safe. If only you could tell your stomach that.

"I want you to get to and from space safety, Johnny. If I hang out with you I'll worry myself about it." you confess.

Johnny nods his head, "Okay give me a day then."

"A day for what?" you ask.

"A day where that stress is less. A day where you don't itch to be sitting at this desk and working out things in that beautiful mind of yours." he continues.

The truth is there is no day that is less stressful for you. At several points in each day since this project was announced and your name was attached, you've felt the stress of it. While cooking dinner at home. While doing laundry. While trying to get sleep so that you could get to work.

It's always there.

It's going to be there until the crew comes home from space.

You can't let Johnny know that. He has his own things to worry about. You would hate to add to his plate.

"Sunday." you answer simply.

He nods his head again. And with a smile he gets up from his seat in your chair. It's slow and agonizing how he seems to go from looking up at you to being eye level with you. His gaze never leaving yours as he does.

"I'll see you Sunday." he adds.

[cookiesandbiscuits]

Hi, there! :D

I saw the new event and it want to participate, If it is not too much trouble, I would like to request:

Type: One Shot Prompt: FRIENDS TO LOVERS: "But [Silver]… we are friends." "…Yes, but–" "But I would very much like to be more than friends." Character: Silver (Twst) x Fem Prefect

Idea: I was thinking of a scenario where Silver and the prefect become increasingly closer by spending time together in the forest behind the campus (where the ancient tree is)

It's just an idea, if my order doesn't convince you, you can discard it, but if not, take your time and don't pressured. Thanks. Bye! <3

Inexplicably Drawn to You

In which your unexpected friendship with the man you met in the forest turns into something more.

Pairing: Silver x Fem!Reader

Prompt: "But [Character Name]... we are friends." "...Yes, but–" "But I would very much like to be more than friends."

A/N: Hello! Thank you for sending your request! Writing stories is one of the main reasons why I made this blog three years ago, so I appreciate every request I receive in my inbox ^^

I apologize for posting this late. The editing part took a while since this became quite long. I hope you enjoy this story!

Other notes: Reader is Yuu/prefect; uses Y/N in place of a name

» 300 Follower Milestone Event

» MASTERLIST

It was purely a coincidence meeting him that day.

You have always been drawn to the forest—its lush canopy and the whispers of its inhabitants always leaving you in awe. So when you discovered the forest behind Night Raven's campus, you were so eager to free your schedule for a visit.

And when the time finally came, it was everything you've ever imagined. The forest was peaceful and quiet; a perfect place to take a break from the usual chaos surrounding you.

You were so busy admiring the place that you didn't notice what was in front of you and you tripped.

Something, or rather, someone, was lying on the ground where you were walking.

You wanted to say something to the stranger who made you trip, but the serene look on his face made you think otherwise.

Looking closely, the man, who was sleeping as you noticed, was quite handsome. Him, adding the tranquil backdrop the forest provided, made for a spectacular sight. Just like—

"Like a prince from a storybook..." you murmured.

Just then, the stranger opened his eyes and met yours, making you jump.

"...Um, hi?" you waved awkwardly as the man continued to stare at you.

He blinked for a few moments before sitting upright.

In a groggy voice, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Time? Well..." you paused for a moment to think. "I've been here for about 30 minutes now, and I came here at around 4 PM, so I'm guessing it's already 4:30 PM."

The man widened his eyes and stood up.

"I slept on for too long. I must hurry, or I'll be late. Thank you for your assistance."

He bowed, and before you could even say anything, he had already left.

You could only blink at how quickly everything had happened.

"What'cha up to, Prefect?"

You flinched when two hands suddenly grabbed you by the shoulders.

"Ace! You almost gave me a heart attack!" you shrilled.

"Haha, you shoulda seen the look on your face— ow! What the hell, dude! What was that for?"

Ace frowned at Deuce, who only sighed at his classmate's behavior.

"You shouldn't scare people like that, Ace." He then turned to look at you. "Anyways, what are you doing, Prefect?"

"Nothing much. I'm just drawing," you smiled, showing your sketchpad to the two.

"Woah, you're pretty damn good at this," Ace marveled as he looked through the pages.

"I didn't know you can draw," said Deuce.

You shrugged. "It's just one of my pastime hobbies."

"Ooh, who's this guy?" Ace pointed the latest illustration in your sketchpad.

It was the sleeping man you met in the forest.

"I don't know," you answered, taking your sketchpad back from Ace's hands.

"What do you mean "you don't know"?"

"I just told you. I don't know." You started to put away your stuff in your bag. "I never asked his name."

Ace raised a brow on your statement. "So you drew a guy you don't know? Like what, you got a crush on him or something?"

"Wha-?! No!" you sputtered. "I just thought he's pretty, okay? And I like drawing pretty things."

"Riiiight..." The ginger-haired teen smirked.

"I told you, that's not it!" you screeched, your cheeks slowly reddening at Ace's teasing.

But the boy only laughed at your reaction. Even Deuce couldn't help but laugh too.

You can only sigh in frustration. "Ugh, you guys are terrible!"

"I swear, those two..." you grumbled as you drew the wild anemone you found.

"Oh, it's you..."

"Huh?"

You whipped your head towards the voice. It was the man your friends were teasing you with earlier.

"Oh, hello..." you greeted.

"What are you doing?" he tilted his head as he asked.

"I'm just— drawing! Yes, just drawing this this flower here," you said, opting not to voice out the reason of your grumbling.

"I see..." the man replied.

The silence that followed was long. You thought the man had already left, but to your surprise, he crouched down beside you.

Unable to take it any longer, you spoke. "So, did you get there on time?"

"Hm? Oh, you mean the last time we met. Yes, I did. And it's all thanks to you."

You waved your hand. "There's no need to thank me. Besides, you've already thanked me before."

"But still... if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have woken up in time for my club activity."

"Ah." You recalled tripping over him the first time you met. "Sorry for tripping over you, by the way."

"It's alright," he replied.

".........."

".........."

Another moment of silence.

"Say," you started. "Do you come here often?"

The man nodded. "I find the forest calming."

You looked down at the wild anemone in front of you. "I see... I hope I'm not causing too much trouble for you."

"Not at all. How about you? Do you visit here often too?"

"When the time allows me to," you responded. "Though I try my best to visit as much as I can."

You turned to look at him.

"Since it's most likely that we'll run into each other a lot here, it's probably best to know each other's names, right?"

Reaching out a hand, you smiled. "I'm Y/N, and you are...?"

"Silver. My name is Silver."

"It's very nice to meet you, Silver."

From that day on, spending your time in the forest with Silver became a common occurrence.

True to his appearance, he was nothing short of a gentleman to you, always making sure you were doing fine during your visits.

You learned that he was a second-year student from Diasomnia and that he was part of the Equestrian Club with Riddle, and along with a first-year named Sebek, he is training to become a retainer for Malleus Draconia, the heir apparent of Briar Valley.

You felt at ease with him, grateful that you found a person aside from your first-year friends to open up to.

And he would always lend an ear to listen to your stories.

You found his presence comforting, just like the forest that has now become a special place for the two of you.

It didn't take long before the feelings of friendship you felt for him had developed into something more.

"Alright, I'm gonna do it."

You announced, clenching your hands with determination.

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Ace asked.

"I'm gonna tell him I like him."

"Finally!" the gingerhead cheered. "I was getting sick of hearing you pine for him every day, to be honest— ack! Dude, you've gotta stop hitting me at the back of my head!"

"I'll stop once you stop being so rude," Deuce replied. "I'll be rooting for you, Prefect!"

You smiled. "Thanks, Deuce. I'll be off then!"

Giving them a small wave, you rushed to the second-years' classrooms, your heart pounding with hope and excitement.

However, that feeling will soon be crushed as soon as you reached your destination.

"This is it, right?"

You panted as you read the sign above the doorframe: "2-A"

You were about to knock when you heard people talking inside, making you pause.

"...Are you two dating?"

"...No, we're not."

You blinked, hearing Silver among the voices you heard.

"The Prefect and I are only good friends, nothing more."

Oh.

Your gaze fell on the floor.

Of course, what were you thinking? It's not like he was doing all those things when you were together because he sees you as more than a friend. It was you who gave those gestures a different meaning.

Laughing bitterly to yourself, you made the walk back to Ramshackle.

"So, how did it go?"

Along with Deuce and Grim, Ace greeted you with his signature grin the moment you walked in Ramshackle's common room.

You could only give them a bittersweet smile in return.

"What, don't tell me you got— mmph!"

Covering Grim's mouth with his free hand, Ace threw a bag of chips in your direction. "You know what? Screw that guy. He doesn't even know what he's missing out on."

"Y-yeah, Ace is right," Deuce chimed in. "Don't worry, Prefect. We're here for you."

After a moment, you sighed, feeling an immense gratefulness for your two friends.

"Thanks, you guys."

"Y-yeah, sure..."

"Pwah! Alright, that's enough! Are we gonna eat these snacks or what?" Grim exclaimed, having wriggled out of Ace's grip.

"Oi, Grim! Don't you dare eat all of the snacks this time, you hear me?" Ace turned to look at your furry roommate, who was already stuffing his mouth full.

Letting out a small laugh, you sat beside Deuce who only shook his head as the other two in the room continued bickering.

You really are lucky to have them as friends.

"Oh..."

You softly gasped as you bumped into the person you have been avoiding all week: Silver.

"Ah... hello, Prefect. You must be here for Professor Crewel's class."

"Y-yes, I am..." you replied awkwardly. "And you? What are you doing here in the lab?"

"Oh, you haven't heard yet? The first-years and second-years will be having a joint class today."

"Really...?" You felt your stomach drop. "I see..."

In that moment, Professor Crewel entered the room. "Alright, puppies, take your seats."

"As I have explained yesterday, we will be making Morpheus's Elixir for today's class. However, as this is a fairly complicated potion, I have assigned to your group a second-year who will guide you in making the potion. Failure to make the potion will cause you to take a remedial class, understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Then I will assign your guides now. Group 1..."

"For Y/N's group, Silver here will be your guide."

"What?!" you exclaimed.

Professor Crewel narrowed his eyes at your sudden outburst. "Do you have any problem with the assignment, Miss Y/N?"

"Ah— no, sir. I apologize."

After Crewel left your table, you sighed. Just your rotten luck, you thought.

"Are you alright, Prefect?" Silver asked.

"Huh? Oh, yes, I'm fine! Never been better!"

"Are you sure—?"

"Yep! We should probably start making the potion now. Let's see..." you cut him off, changing the topic to your current activity.

"We need one teaspoon of stardust powder, three dried lavender spikes, five drops of midnight blue extract, one moondrop piece, and one cup of milk."

Before you could put the ingredients in the cauldron, someone grabbed your hands to stop you.

"Wait! Don't dump them in the cauldron all at once."

"Huh?"

It was Silver. You immediately moved your hands away from his, as if you'd be burned if you don't.

"Ah, sorry. The instruction said to boil them together," you said sheepishly.

"You're right. But the ingredients won't mix together properly if you just put them together."

Pouring the cup of milk in the cauldron, Silver continued to explain.

"You have to heat up the milk in low heat first. Once it starts to steam, put the stardust and ground moondrop piece gradually."

He then gave the moondrop to your group mate. "Ground this and the lavender, if you please."

"Wow... you're really good at this," you marveled, watching the purplish blue potion sparkle as you gently stirred it.

Silver smiled. "Not really... I just happened to be familiar with this potion since I used to make them whenever my father gets his bouts of nightmares."

"I see..."

After a moment, Silver spoke once again.

"I haven't seen you visit the forest for a while now..."

"Oh..." you paused. "I was just...busy, y'know... between doing the headmage's biddings, schoolwork, and keeping an eye on Grim, I haven't found the time to visit."

That was a lie, of course.

You just simply haven't had the strength to face him yet after overhearing the conversation he had with his classmate.

You wouldn't admit that to him, though.

"Then... will you be visiting today?"

"I'm... not sure."

"Oh..."

"......."

The space between the two of you were filled with thick silence which lasted until the end of the class.

Silver sighed as he put the cauldron away in the cabinet.

For some reason, you've been avoiding him for several days now.

Did he do something to offend you?

Mulling over the possible reasons of your avoidance, he left the lab and found you talking to one of your classmates.

He was about to say goodbye when he heard the boy shout.

"Prefect! I-I... I like you! Please go out with me!"

Silver remained quiet as he saw the scene unfold before him. It made his stomach churn, much to his confusion.

His eyes then shifted to you.

"Oh— um... thank you, but I can't," you replied.

He released a breath he didn't know he was keeping. How odd...

Suddenly, the boy grabbed your arm, making you wince.

"C-can't you give me just one chance? I promise I'll be good to you!"

"Wait, stop—"

"Hey."

Before he could think, Silver found yanking your classmate's hand from your arm, inserting himself between you and him.

"I believe the Prefect had already given her answer."

"Silver..."

"Tch, fine..." the boy said, irritated as he raised his hands in defeat and walked away.

After making sure he was out of sight, Silver turned to you. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah... I was just a little surprised, is all," you replied, rubbing the arm your classmate grabbed earlier.

He frowned. Your classmate must've gripped too hard that it even left a mark.

"Has this been happening to you regularly?"

"No, this is the first time this happened, actually."

He paused, eyeing your arm before speaking again. "Do you have somewhere else to be today?"

"No, I don't. Why?

"Then let me escort you back to Ramshackle Dorm."

"Huh?! You don't need to do that!"

However, he only shook his head. "I can't let you walk alone after that. Please, I insist."

After a few more convincing, Silver finally persuaded you into letting him walk you back home.

He sighed in relief as the two of you managed to reach Ramshackle without incident.

"Thank you for walking me back," you said as you opened the front door.

"Of course."

Suddenly, the familiar gingerhead appeared.

"Hey, Prefect!" Ace greeted. "...And Silver?!"

"Wait, Silver's here?"

Another familiar face appeared. This time, it was Deuce.

"Hey guys."

"Hello."

The two Heartslabyul students exchanged looks before looking at the prefect, who sighed.

"He insisted on walking me back."

"Okay..." Ace narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Trappola, Spade." Silver turned to the two card soldiers. "Can I speak with you two? Please."

The gingerhead raised a brow before looking at the prefect.

"Do what you want. I'll be going inside and sleep." You waved your hand and went inside.

"Sure..."

"Say what?!"

The two blurted after Silver told them what happened earlier.

"I can't believe he did that..." Ace sighed.

"Yeah, that guy's gonna pay for that... No man should force a woman to do what he wants," Deuce cracked his knuckles as he spoke.

"Please, calm down, there's no need to retaliate. I will speak to the teachers regarding this. I only ask you to keep the Prefect company, in case something like this happens again."

"Say..." Ace suddenly turned to Silver, his eyes serious. "Why are you doing this?"

Silver's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I'm asking why are you doing all this effort for the Prefect? Don't get me wrong, we're still gonna do what you asked us to, I just don't get why you asked us for help too? Most people in this school would just tell the teachers what happened and go their merry way at best, but you even walked her home to make sure she arrived safely. What does the Prefect truly mean to you?"

He was taken aback at the first-year's question. "The Prefect is a precious friend of mine and—"

Ace scoffed, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Yeah, right."

"Ace! Don't be rude!" Deuce scolded. "I'm so sorry for my dorm mate's actions. He's only worried for our friend. Don't worry, we'll make sure the Prefect is safe."

Silver stared at Ace, who was scowling, for a moment before turning to Deuce.

"Thank you. And Ace?"

"What?"

"I know you're worried for the Prefect, but I promise you, I would never do anything to hurt her."

He then slightly bowed and left.

"Oh, Silver. Welcome back."

"Hello. What are you guys doing?"

Silver eyed his two dorm mates curiously.

"Oh, I'm just helping this guy write a love letter for his crush, the Ramshackle prefect," the first student replied.

"Hey! Don't tell him that!" the second student shrieked.

"...You like the Prefect?" Silver asked.

"Oh, he's absolutely smitten. Wouldn't stop talking about how cute and nice she is. I got sick of it so I told him to write a letter instead."

"I told you, stop! I don't need everybody to know my business!"

"Hey, speaking of which, you're a friend of the Prefect, right?" Student No. 1 smiled. "Mind helping this guy to ask his crush out?"

Ask the Prefect out...?

Silver felt his his chest twinge with unease.

As much as he'd like to help his dorm mates out, the Prefect is his friend. And she just experienced something terrible with love confessions earlier. If he helped them out, that might make her uncomfortable, and—

"O-on second thought..."

Student No. 1's voice broke him out of his stupor.

The man, who was looking paler by the minute, continued. "You must be busy with other things. Please, forget we asked!"

Grabbing his friend's arm, he rushed out of the room, leaving the unfinished love letter on the table.

Silver could only stare at the doorway in confusion.

"My, no wonder those two look like they saw a ghost. Why the frown?"

He turned to look at the new arrival.

"Father..."

Lilia smiled, before noticing the unattended letter on the table.

"What's this? A love letter?"

Silver nodded. "Those two left it behind."

"Young love... How nice." The older fae giggled. "Who's the recipient?"

"...The Ramshackle prefect."

"Oh... You mean your friend whom you met in the woods?"

"Yes."

Silver frowned at the letter in his adoptive father's hand.

"Are you upset that she's receiving a lot of attention from her admirers?"

Lilia waved the paper in his hand. "You've been staring at this like it's your greatest enemy."

"Oh..."

He let out a sigh. "I'm just worried about her."

Lilia raised a brow, urging him to continue.

"One of her admirers physically harassed her earlier. Who knows what might've happened if I wasn't there to intervene."

"Oh my..." Lilia scowled. "How distasteful. Is she alright?"

"Yes. I escorted her home to make sure she's safe."

The bat fae nodded. "That's good."

"And then there's that..."

Silver paused, unsure of what to say next.

"What do you mean?" Lilia asked.

"For some reason, I feel... restless." Silver ran a hand through his hair. "Like I want to hide her away from the others. Especially when I heard that student talk about her like that."

"Hoh..." Lilia hummed, his eyes filled with intrigue. "...Are you sure what you feel for her is only friendship?"

"What?" Silver furrowed his brows. "What is it then if not friendship?"

Lilia only shrugged at his question. "That's for you to find out! It would be less fun if I told you right away."

Grabbing his shoulder, Lilia ushered him to his room. "Now then, it's time for you to think long and hard for the answer, okay?"

"The answer, huh..."

Silver closed his eyes and opened them again, his line of sight never leaving your table in the cafeteria.

A few days had passed since the incident with your classmate happened. The teachers swiftly made an action with his report, sending the culprit into a two-week suspension and transferring him to a different section, making sure that the two of you never crossed paths during classes.

Your two friends from Heartslabyul also kept their promise, making sure you were never alone.

It's also been days since Lilia told him to go find the answer to his own question. Unfortunately, he still hasn't found the right answer to that.

He brought his attention back to your table.

You were laughing at something Ace had said.

Seeing you smile like that, unburdened with the troubles your life here had brought you, made him smile too.

He'd do anything to keep that smile of yours on your face.

And with that, realization slowly found its way to him.

Why he became downhearted when you said you were too busy to visit the forest.

Why he was so upset about the attention from your admirers.

Why he wanted to protect that precious smile of yours.

Ace and Lilia's questions came to Silver's mind.

"What does the Prefect truly mean to you?"

"...Are you sure what you feel for her is only friendship?"

The answer to those is...

"That's what you get for being overzealous," you said, still laughing at Ace's story.

The gingerhead only pouted at your reaction. "It's not funny! Don't you know how hard it is to catch those little guys?"

"At least that'll teach you not to use the school's resources to make a quick cash."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it, so stop laughing!"

"...Prefect."

You tensed as you heard that all too familiar voice. Taking a deep breath, you turned to look at him and smiled.

"Hi, Silver. Can I help you with something?"

"Are you free after class today?"

You eyed him curiously. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Then, can we meet in the forest today? I need to tell you something important."

You looked at your two friends and Grim, who gave you worried looks. You gave them a reassuring smile in return.

"Sure, I'll be there."

"I wonder what it is he wanted to talk about?" you said to yourself as you treaded the familiar path of the forest.

This is the first time you've visited this place since... that happened.

You shook your head and continued to walk.

Your feelings are still all over the place, although not as much as before. You've been trying your best to move on, but you are missing the time you've spent with Silver in this forest.

Speak of the devil, you thought, as you spotted the familiar figure lying on the forest floor.

"Seriously, it's a wonder how you can sleep in the cold hard ground so soundly," you chuckled, crouching beside him and brushing off the strands of hair blocking his face.

He must've felt your touch, as he stirred awake from his slumber after brushing off his hair.

"Morning, sleepyhead."

"Mm... Y/N..? Did I make you wait?"

You shook your head. "I just got here. I should be asking you that. Sorry I'm late."

Silver sat up from his sleeping spot. "It's alright."

He patted the space beside him, and you complied, sitting beside him on the ground.

The setting sun painted the sky in an array of colors, making you sigh in awe.

"Y/N."

"Yes?" you replied, taking off your gaze from the sky to him.

"I've been thinking a lot to answer a question I asked myself. And after a few days, I've finally found the answer to that question."

You remained quiet, letting him continue speaking.

"I am ashamed to admit that it took me to realize it after that incident, but I cannot bear to see you be with another man."

Silver looked at you with all seriousness.

You blinked. No way. Is he...?

"Y/N, I am deeply in love with you. And I promise to treasure you every day as long as I live, if you'll have me."

You gasped.

You thought there would be no chance, when you heard him that day. But here he is, laying his feelings out in the open.

Tears began to prickle your eyes.

"But Silver... we are friends."

"...Yes, but–"

"But I would very much like to be more than friends."

You laughed, your tears now flowing freely on your cheeks.

Silver stared at you in disbelief before pulling you in for a hug.

"You have no idea how much I've been wanting you to say that," you said between sobs.

Pressing your foreheads together, he began to wipe your tears with his thumb. "I'm sorry, and thank you."

Once again, you let out a shaky laugh before kissing him.

And as your lips met his, you found yourself grateful to whatever divinity watching you above in this world for letting you meet and love the man who was sleeping on the ground that day.

Tag list: @officialdaydreamer00 @cloudcountry @identity-theft-101 @the-clockwork-fiend @twst-beam @oya-oya-okay @savanaclaw1996 (tell me if you wanna be added/removed from the list!)

[genjyoandgojyoandhakkai]

Answers under the cut!

I'd already started thinking about most of this because I want to continue Rook's story past the Veilguard ending. If you are interested to read a one-shot that goes a little into Xiqaa's backstory (tattoos and origin), you can find that here.

I haven't even STARTED on Xi and Emmrich yet but I certainly will. 💚⚡Hints are all throughout Despite Everything.

I'm not using Rook's name a lot in my Rookanis story, to leave room for everyone else to make their own Rook the LI, but I use it liberally below. It's pronounced "Zika" or "Shika" depending on your accent and Xi is pronounced Z by Rook herself.

Xiqaa Rook Laidir

🌻 How old is your Rook? How do they feel about celebrating their birthday? What gift has meant the most to them?

🌻36. She was born a galley slave so she knows her birth year but doesn't care about birthdays. That miiight change if her friends decide to surprise her with gifts or a party - she is learning new things about herself all the time. She got her first piece of leather armor from Fia, someone she was with for a while after she escaped slavery. It wasn't given to her on her birthday, but that was the day she started commemorating her new life, and it is what she considers her birthday.

🪻 What is the most painful injury your Rook has received? How has it affected them once it healed/scarred?

🪻Xiqaa got her lightning from touching an ancient artifact she shouldn't have. (You know, like Rook do.) It was the most painful thing to happen because she injured herself over and over before she learned to control it. She's got lightning scars all over her body, but she's proud of them because she learned a survival lesson and they look bad ass and scary.

🌹 What’s the first genuine fight Rook got in with their love interest about? How was it resolved?

🌹Rook and Lucanis don't really fight, and that's problematic. Both of them tend to internalize the problem as something they did wrong. This does come to a head once in a while, and I haven't worked far enough into their future to see what their first real fight would be. It is pretty far out there, when the two of them have no one else to run interference between their stupid misunderstandings/assumptions and lack of ability to articulate feelings. They obviously haven't resolved this yet, but it's a process, as long as they come back to each other.

🌹Rook and Emmrich fight over his fear of death (kinda); she doesn't believe in letting your fears win, and giving away your fate so easily. She is stubborn about this to a fault. Emmrich is much more open with thoughts and feelings than Lucanis, so there's potential for them to clash over more clearly stated feelings and preferences, but Emmrich is also better at mending situations so it's rare they go to bed angry with the other. They are still working on things. Rook promised not to judge Emmrich so harshly, and Emmrich promised to try and live in the moment more. (Heaven only knows what Lucanis and Emmrich will fight about...I'm really not to that point with them yet.)

🌸 Does your Rook have any siblings or close friends they see as such? Where are they during the events of Veilguard?

🌸 As a former slave, mercenary, and rebellion fighter, she is used to dropping in and out of situations - that's why she trusts and is trusted so quickly, but she didn't allow anyone to get too close. Her closest friend from her early years was a slave named Chek, and when they got to the benches, he showed her how to survive differently. From him, she learned that their masters kept them fighting against each other to prevent them planning rebellions. From Chek she learned to share, to work on a team, and to open up to another person. He escaped before she did, and she found out later he was recaptured. His status is unknown. She's been on her own for a long time, and Varric was the older brother/mentor figure she needed, after Isabela, who showed her that you can let your guard down once in a while. We all know where Varric was during Veilguard.

🌾 If there was a demon trying to trap/take over Rook, what kind would be the most successful? What would break their hold?

🌾 Rook's demon would probably be Pride. She's proud of her ability to survive on her own, and the temptation to never have to ask for help again would be strong. Breaking their hold would require someone else to show her how strength doesn't equate to solitude. Her friends drag her back from that brink all the time, without demons involved.

🌱 Was Rook involved romantically with anyone before Veilguard? What was their partner like? How did the relationship end?

🌱 Rook's first relationship as a free person was Fia, a mage living on Seheron. Fia was bold and swaggering, a fire mage fighting qunari twice her size. Xi was drawn to Fia, wanting to be someone (and be with someone) who looked tough and talked tough, and they had a few flings here and there. It was chaotic; lots of drinking and fighting and fucking. Rook discovered she didn't actually enjoy being with someone who wanted to fight at the drop of a hat, so they just kinda grew apart. It was definitely a situationship of convenience, and Xiqaa left Seheron for Rivain soon after.

🌼 If someone was to ask Spite what Rook smells like, what would he say?

🌼Sea salt and sunshine. For those of us with physical senses, it would be a hot spring afternoon when the plants are blooming; the earthy scent of green things with an indistinct floral background, and a tang of salt like sudden tears.

🌷If Rook needed to get away from their responsibilities for a moment, where would they go? Where is their safe space outside the Lighthouse?

🌷Rook would go to the old Warden fortress on the Rivaini coast to get away from her responsibilities and just watch the world. (She's not really the type to just get away from it all; when she needs to get away she just finds something else from her long list to do.) She has an affinity for open spaces and clear sightlines, and she loves the sound of the ocean. Her safe space, though, is her apartment in the Hall of Lords. She's never had a home before, and she loves having a space of her own. The floor is made of old deck planks and it's her favorite thing about the apartment.

🥀 What figure from Rook’s personal past would be added to the regret prison?

🥀Xiqaa's galley benchmate, Chek, would definitely appear in the regret prison. He was a kind person, and he taught her how to survive differently; less fighting amongst those who were already prisoners, more generosity of heart. He escaped a year before she did, and she always regretted not going with him - she loved him like a brother. Later she found out he'd been recaptured and sent to a magister who used his life force to power their spells, and Xi has always wondered if she could have gone back for him.

🪷 Does your Rook have an irrational phobia? (ie spiders or large man-made objects submerged underwater)

🪷 Rook doesn't have any phobias that she knows of. Her flaw in this regard is that she believes facing your fears makes you stronger, so she's likely to work herself into a terrible state if she discovered a phobia. There's still time to find one, though.

🍀 Has Rook had any near-death experiences? What went through their mind during what they thought was going to be their final moments?

🍀 Rook's life is made of near-death experiences. Mostly she would just close her eyes for a second and think "Well, shit. At least it's on my own terms." The first time living and not just dying free mattered to her, though, was after she found the Veilguard. Fighting for her friends became more than fighting for a cause. She truly hoped to see the next sunrise and discover more life everyday. Since she fell for Lucanis, her fear of dying without telling him how special he is to her is foremost. Also top on that list would be never having her romance with Emmrich bloom into what she envisions they could have.

💐 What is the relationship Rook has with their faction mentor? What was the moment they sent Rook away like?

💐Rook and Isabela have an easy relationship for the most part. Rook prefers the raunchy jokes and tough talk that Isabela uses, so it was easy to make that their shared language. They also share a similar devotion to wealth, doing the right thing, and a disdain for political figureheads. When a well-connected noble double-crossed Rook on their attempt to take an artifact for the Venatori, Isabela wasn't surprised at all. She also wasn't surprised that Rook wasn't sorry for killing the Venatori scum, so temporary exile was pretty much the only solution. Isabela told Rook that she went through something similar (an exile of sorts) in her past, and maybe someday they'd share stories over drinks. Rook was annoyed that politics were stronger than her new allegiances but she just shrugged it off and threw herself into the next job. That upset Isabela more than she let on, so they had some frosty moments when reuniting.

🌺 Is there an object from Rook’s childhood they look back on fondly? (ie a favorite stuffed animal, book, or food)

🌺 It's more like a compensation for not having one, but Rook just likes food. The fancier and more expensive the better. It's not a childhood memory, but a response to not having much when she was younger, and food is comforting as well as an experience with culture.

🌿 Does your Rook have any tattoos? What was the moment when they got them like? If they’re a Crow where is their de Riva brand located? What vallaslin do they have/how did they earn it if they’re Dalish?

🌿Rook has a ton of tattoos, but no vallaslin. She's elvish, and grew up hearing the legends and songs in whispers at night, but she's not Dalish. For her, tattoos they are a way to tell her life story and to choose how she appears to others. She got her first one, a pair of wings, on her shoulder after she escaped from the galleys. It was exciting to her, to have control over her entire body and even the pain meant freedom. She added a rook piece between her breasts after becoming Varric's second in command...it distracts Lucanis and Spite to no end 🤣

🍂 What was it like the first time Rook killed someone? How did they react afterwards?

🍂 Rook's first time killing someone was when she was around twelve years old. Slaves were chosen for the benches based on physical characteristics, but the smaller ones were given a chance to fight their way in. Those not selected would be sold to other houses, usually industrial work like tanning or slaughterhouses. The galley bench meant you had three meals a day and a full shift of sleep, which was an almost-human experience for a slave. A wiry kid thought he could take Xiqaa because she was slender, and he fought with all his strength and cleverness to take her life. She didn't want to kill him, but that was her only choice if she wanted to have any existence that wasn't drudgery, so she did it. She felt anger at him, more than anything else, because she was forced into taking his life. It made her sick, but she wasn't one to give up, even then.

Woe! Rook ask game be upon ye!

🌻 How old is your Rook? How do they feel about celebrating their birthday? What gift has meant the most to them? 🪻 What is the most painful injury your Rook has received? How has it affected them once it healed/scarred? 🌹 What’s the first genuine fight Rook got in with their love interest about? How was it resolved? 🌸 Does your Rook have any siblings or close friends they see as such? Where are they during the events of Veilguard? 🌾 If there was a demon trying to trap/take over Rook, what kind would be the most successful? What would break their hold? 🌱 Was Rook involved romantically with anyone before Veilguard? What was their partner like? How did the relationship end? 🌼 If someone was to ask Spite what Rook smells like, what would he say? 🌷If Rook needed to get away from their responsibilities for a moment, where would they go? Where is their safe space outside the Lighthouse? 🥀 What figure from Rook’s personal past would be added to the regret prison? 🪷 Does your Rook have an irrational phobia? (ie spiders or large man-made objects submerged underwater) 🍀 Has Rook had any near-death experiences? What went through their mind during what they thought was going to be their final moments? 💐 What is the relationship Rook has with their faction mentor? What was the moment they sent Rook away like? 🌺 Is there an object from Rook’s childhood they look back on fondly? (ie a favorite stuffed animal, book, or food) 🌿 Does your Rook have any tattoos? What was the moment when they got them like? If they’re a Crow where is their de Riva brand located? What vallaslin do they have/how did they earn it if they’re Dalish? 🍂 What was it like the first time Rook killed someone? How did they react afterwards?

[thegoodwitchsworld]

SPECIAL CLASSES

Part 1

Pairing -Dark!Professor Steve Rogers x reader, Peter parker x reader

Warnings- heavy age gap, early 20s and early 40s, dub!con, non!con, dark themes.

"So that's it for today class, I hope you guys remember there's another test next Tuesday."

The class groans collectively as your professor Steve announces yet another test. In the last one week itself, you have done so much classwork that it was nearly impossible to keep up with all of it.

And yet, you managed to do it.

You, the best student Steve has, always sitting on the first bench, never missing a single word he says, never being out of line-YOU managed all the extra coursework that Steve gave.

So it really comes as a surprise when he asks you to stay back after class.

"Coming, Y/N?" Natalie asks, picking up her laptop bag as she heads towards the door.

"She'll be joining you later, Ms Thompson. I'm afraid she and I have to talk", Steve says suddenly. Your hand stops midway in packing your own bag, and you turn around to face him, a confused expression on your face.

"Did I...do something wrong sir...?" You ask, your eyebrows scrunched up.

"Don't worry, Ms Y/L/N, it's nothing much. Just some extra stuff to discuss," Steve answers, his arms crossed over his chest as he stands against his desk with his legs crossed. His face has a serious expression.

You nod and wait as the last guy leaves the class, and you're left alone with your teacher. You wait quietly for him to speak first, and when he only stares at you, unblinking, you start to become nervous.

"So," he finally smiles. "Miss Y/l/n, do you have a boyfriend?"

He turns around, his back to you as he leans slightly on his desk.

You're confused as hell. What kind of question is this?

"Answer me, Y/n," Steve repeats. You don't see his face but his voice has hardened a little.

"I-y-yes Professor, I have one...," you manage to whisper.

"So I thought. "

He suddenly turns to you again and bends down in front of you, his palms gripping the sides of your table, his face inches away from yours as he stares at you, his jaw hard. You flinch from his sudden movement but recompose yourself.

"And where exactly, does this boyfriend of yours fit in your life, sweetheart?" He asks, venom dripping from his voice, so much that even you, who's completely clueless usually, can gauge it.

"Wh-what do you mean, professor?" You ask, trying very hard to not get intimidated by his sharp blue eyes, or the way they keep flicking down to your lips.

Steve straightens up slowly, never taking his eyes off you, before he drags a chair and sits down in front of you. He's so close. He shouldn't be so close, right? Or are you just overthinking?

His arms rest on your table.

"I MEAN," He drags the word, "that your boyfriend is not going to help your grades, sweetheart."

"My grades...?" You are genuinely confused now. "My grades seem to be fine, sir... I got As in all 4 tests this week..."

He smirks. "And do you think you deserved them?"

"I-"

But you don't really know what to say, so you stop. Steve looks again at your slightly parted lips.

He softly cups your cheek in his palm before swiping his thumb on your lip.

"Let him go, y/n." He speaks softly.

"Or your grades will not be enough for you to even stay in this college anymore."

Tears well up in your eyes immediately. Your education has always meant everything to you. Everything was always secondary to your grades. Yoh have worked so hard, and for it all to be taken away in a second? Like THis?

"That's not fair, s-sir", you start crying earnestly. "I worked really hard, I promise you Peter is not gonna hurt My grades I swear! Please don't fail me please I- just..."

You cover your face with your hands as you continue to cry and sniffle.

For a moment it's all so silent that you forget Steve is even there at all. So you naturally jump when he speaks again.

"You can save your grades, if you do what I tell you to do." He says.

You look up at him, your eyes wide and your nose red. Your mascara is running slightly.

"What do I have to do?" You ask, your head tilting slightly with the question.

Steve looks at you. He gets up from his chair and walks to the front of the classroom.

"Come here to me, sweetheart," he says.

You slowly get up and walk to him. Suddenly, he grabs your arm and moves you so that you're standing against his desk and he is facing you. His towering height makes you even more nervous, your heart painfully thumping in your chest. The next moment, his hand is at your waist, and he pulls you roughly against his chest. Your eyes widen, your hands coming up to rest on his hard chest to balance yourself. His mouth curves up in a dark, sinister smile.

"Now I'm sure we'll come to an agreement, won't we, sweetheart?"

[ivenhae]

00:00 am

The front door opens as Jungwon steps inside, taking his shoes off and keeping them aside before making his way in, Jungwon's eyes falls on the clock on the table reading [00:00] as he plops down on the couch with a sigh, throwing his bag aside.

The house is quiet, too quiet. He hears the humming of the ceiling fan and rustling of paper from inside the bedroom and he knows you're in there, but he's nervous, ashamed even to face you after everything he said earlier.

"Y/n?" But there's no response from inside, he knocks again and the lack of response leaves him no choice but to open the door himself. "Shit" his heart clenches at the sight, you've fell asleep on the desk, cheeks stained with dried tears, the paper beside you stained with them too and your breathing ragged as you breathe through your mouth, nose probably blocked from all the crying.

He feels like the biggest jerk alive as he looks at you, cursing himself mentally, he hesitates before picking you up carefully so as to not wake you, without bothering to change he slides in beside you before holding you close against his chest.

Feeling a heavy yet comfortable weight on your body you start stirring awake, you can't help but giggle when you feel kisses being placed all over your face, for a second you forget everything, for a second. Jungwon pauses when he hears you giggle, his lips pressed onto your cheek as he freezes on the spot.

"Wonnie?" Jungwon swallows when he hears your sleepily voice, placing a soft kiss before pulling back to look at you. Then again, you had forgotten everything for a second. He notices the realization dawning on your face and he watches your smile fade away before you huff and look away. Normally, he would've chuckled and kissed you till you both were breathless well, normally.

"Look at me, please" Your heart skips a beat at the way he said please, his voice so soft and sincere that it made you turn your head to look at him. "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry", he pulls you closer, burying his face in your hair as he keeps on mumbling apologies, occasionally kissing the top of your head. He stops after a while, pulling back to look at you, "Say something, please"

"What do you want me to say..." You say with a slight pout, you were already melting by the way he was holding you, kissing you, looking at you, but you didn't want to forgive him so easily, "You-" before you could finish, he's already pressing his lips against yours, trying to convey his apology through the kiss.

After the sweetest fifteen seconds of your life, you feel him press his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he speaks, his voice low and sincere. "I'm sorry love, I had a bad day and took it out on you and I'm a jerk for not apologizing right away, I'm sorry for making you cry, you're my sweet girl and making you cry is the last thing I should be doing heck, I shouldn't be even doing it, I only-" You place a hand over his mouth, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as you look at him.

"Easy there kitty yang" He chuckles in relief, pulling you closer if that's even possible, "You're not...mad?" you look at him for a moment before sighing and settling against his chest, "I am a little, but I also understand" he smiles against your hair at the simple answer which reminds him of one of the reasons he fell in love with you in the first place.

"Seriously though, if I ever pull that shit again you have the full permission to kick my ass" He says with a playful grin, squeezing you gently, you giggle nodding softly, "Deal" Jungwon raises an eyebrow at you, "Damn, you didn't even have to think about it" he chuckles before starting to tickle you.

You're wiping tears from the corner of your eyes from all the tickling you received from your boyfriend, "So, never ever let me talk to you like that again yeah?" you nod, smiling softly making him smile in return, "And if I do...?"

"I kick your ass"

"Good girl"

likes and reblogs are appreciated if you liked the fic!

m.list

💌: happy won day!!🥳 a little something before i disappear for the rest of feb🤗 unika think, unika write, unika post lmaooo im sorry its not as good as it was in my head. i was listening to nwjns bubble gum intrumental while writing the latter half so you can see when it got all fluffy haha anyways i hope you like it! mwahh

perm taglist!- @hiiimgumii @lialovesss

©ivenhae - all rights reserved, do not copy or steal.

[yanderes-galore]

may I request a yandere concept for James Sunderland in DBD?٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

Here's the mentally unstable and depressed blonde. But in DBD. I reread the previous stuff I did for him to try and help me write him how I did before.

I'M SO MAD THE SILENT HILL 2 REMAKE ISN'T FOR XBOX YET! 😭

Here's some prompts I did for him.

Here's some Tarot HCs I did for him.

Yandere! James Sunderland (DBD) Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Delusional behavior, Murder mentioned, Jealousy, Projections, Possessive behavior, Guilt, Depression, Mentions of suicidal thoughts, Attempted murder on Darling mentioned, Denial, Manipulation, James plays victim, Forced affection mentioned, Forced relationship.

Honestly, having him as a yandere in his original universe is already bad enough.

James comes from a pretty tough place in his life.

After the death of his wife, he went to Silent Hill for either answers or clarity...

Then all of a sudden he's here, in an entirely new hell where he has to face creatures and killers beyond comprehension.

I've said this in previous posts about him, but James is extremely delusional and mentally unstable.

This is a man who killed his wife while she was dying in the hospital.

He's a man plagued with depression and has thought of ending it quite a lot.

When it comes to his obsession, he most likely sees you like he did with Mary, his wife.

He's often tormented by how much you remind him of her (regardless of gender).

This makes James conflicted enough as is.

At first, James doesn't want to admit he's falling for you.

He doesn't believe he deserves to be loved or even feel love again.

He feels panicked when he feels his cheeks warm or his chest beat faster.

He tells himself you don't even mean to make him feel this way.

You're just helping him survive, you're a survivor.

The only reason you help him is to benefit yourself.

Yet he's over here getting all bothered because you're paying attention to him.

He's pathetic and he knows it.

Despite his denial, he still feels his feelings getting stronger.

He falls fast due to how unstable he is.

Deep down James wants to chase how you make him feel.

He wants you to drown him in your everything, to make him forget about Mary.

He craves your kisses, warmth, hold, all of it.

He wants that so bad, he doesn't care how wrong any of it is.

He wants you to help him cope, but none of it is healthy.

He doesn't deserve to feel possessive or jealous.

He doesn't deserve you.

Yet isn't it human nature to want something you can't have?

James is unpredictable, always too deep in his delusions and hallucinations.

Now's not the time for any of that... You need to survive.

Unfortunately... James can't ignore the envy he feels forever.

He's aware he's a horrible person, a monster probably just as bad as all the others here.

Yet he craves you like you're his sanctuary.

James gets irritable when he sees you with other survivors.

He sometimes even hates how Mary seems to haunt him in your features.

James can never seem to cope properly.

His poor obsession is often a victim of this.

James tends to cling to his obsession.

He's either always following you or trying to pull you into tight hugs.

He's a possessive man, always muttering and asking you to forgive him.

He knows he shouldn't be doing any of this, he should leave you alone.

Yet he continues his actions, often pleading for you to forgive him until someone pries him off.

James has frequent unstable thoughts.

He plots how to harm or get rid of other survivors, even if they'll just come back.

There's even some brief delusional thoughts he has about Mary, making him target you.

It's terrifying when he pins you to a tree, hands around your neck as he calls you 'Mary'.

You're scared to die, even if it doesn't matter in this place.

James has no morals, not anymore.

James is aware of his failing mental state.

In fact... He knows how to use it.

James knows he should be ashamed of playing victim... but...

It gets you to play attention to him.

If James opens up to you, something he usually hates doing, he can garner your pity.

If he tells you about his depression... his darker thoughts... you'll comfort him.

You won't pay attention to anyone else if he steals your attention, right?

He doesn't care if he's manipulating you.

Your eyes are on him... you're holding him... you're comforting him...

He hopes you'll let him kiss your lips too, he wants to taste you.

James is a pathetic man who can't figure out what he wants.

He wants you to tend and care for him, to make him forget about Mary.

At the same time he views your presence as torture, only able to see Mary in you.

James isn't sure how much he can take.

Maybe this really is hell.

Maybe you're meant to be his torment, a worse torment compared to all the monsters in this place.

James hates it at times... but you're all he ever wants.

He's addicted to you, no matter how violent it makes him.

The others know him as a liability.

But he needs you.

Every kiss and ounce of affection... He takes it.

Even if you didn't want to give it.

James is a pathetic and selfish man.

He used to deny that, but he knows it now.

James would do anything to keep you to himself.

Manipulation, murder, it doesn't matter in the end really...

James just needs you, dead or alive...

You're his only way to cope.

[localboobsenjoyer]

"So what do we think of this outfit?" Asked your girlfriend, she was so beautiful that everything looked good on her, so you casually answered that it was good. But then you noticed that her pink top was basically see-through, and she wasn't wearing a bra, so her massive boobs were on full display for everyone to see. While you liked to parade your beautiful wife around with her massive still-growing boobs, this was over the line. "We think that this is a bit too much, honey. Don't you have something less revealing or at least a bra?" "This is the only thing that kind of fits, at least until the next growth spurt, and I have no bras left that fit," she answered, caressing her oversized bosom. She did offer a compelling argument. She has grown a lot in the past months, and they looked gorgeous even without a bra. "Ok, you're let's go." "Yippee!" she said, jumping joyously, her boobs nearly falling out of her struggling top. After a brief moment of joy, however, her expression changed. "Oops. Maybe I shouldn't have done that." Why do you say…" You were cut short by her top flying in your face. Her massive breast had grown again, even bigger, even rounder than before, destroying the last piece of functional wardrobe she had left. Her boobs, now easily at least 3 sizes bigger than before, were now on full display for you to admire.

"Well, I guess I will have to stay at home now. Come on, I will order some new clothes online, hoping that I will not outgrow them before they arrive. I will meet you in the bedroom; you know how I feel after a growth spurt like that."

[rhineztonepearlz]

Test answers

Professor! Aaron Hotchner x Student! F Reader SMUT

Warnings: Age gap (Reader is 20, Aaron is 35), choking, spanking, over the desk, hand over mouth, professor x student, p in v, teasing, edging, seducing, NO Y/N, pet name: darling, baby, mentions of past intercourse (when reader was of age, dont mind 'intercourse' i didnt know what to say dafuq), cunnilingus, blowjob, hand job (sort of?)

Reader has been out partying all night, instead of studying for her test. She gets an F on her test, so she decides to go talk to her hot professor about it. She had done it in the past, and he gave in. But this time, he won't do it without putting up a fight.

The bell rang, and the students pack up. All except for me. I wait until everyone is out of the classroom before I grab my test, and I walk over to his desk. He looks up at me, his usual stoic expression still on his face. I hand him my paper. "What's this?" I ask him.

"Your test." He answers coldly. I scoff, putting my hands on my hips and sitting on my left butt. "It says I got an F! Why is that?" He gives me a 'are you serious' look, and answers. "Because you got 3 out of 20 questions right. Next time maybe study, and then you'll actually pass."

"I did study! C'mon, just pass me. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Just like last year." I say, leaning in close to him over the desk. He clears his throat, keeping his stoic expression plastered on his face. "Last year was a mistake. I shouldn't have passed you just because of what we did. I was fresh out of a divorce, and I was pent up and lonely."

I frown, but I'm not ready to give up just yet. I smirk, walking behind the desk, unbuttoning the top of my shirt, showing off my cleavage. "Oh come on, don't be like that. Please? I promise I won't tell anyone."

"That's what you said last year. Yes, you didn't tell anyone, but I also said that it would never happen again. So it's never happening again. Like I said, it was a mistake. It was unprofessional of me. I could've lost my job." He says coldly once again.

"I could've lost my scholarship. Which is why I made sure nobody knew. And I'll make sure of that again, if you just let me. Remember how my lips felt on you?" I say, slowly unbuttoning the rest of my top.

He takes a sharp breath, and he sighs. "Yes- God yes I remember. And button your top back up. Anyone could walk past and see!"

"I'm facing away from the door! Nobody will see! Come onnn. Don't be such a party pooper. Remember how I felt on you? Remember when you had my nipples in your mouth? Mmm. Pretty please?" I say, feigning innocence. I grab his hand and put it on my right breast.

"I do remember, I remember everything. God. Go lock the door. Now." He says in his hot voice. I smile and I go over to the door, locking it and closing the blinds. I walk closer to him, unbuttoning my shirt fully and taking it off. He runs his hands up and down my waist and his, kissing my collarbone. I laugh softly, running my hands through his hair. I look at him and kiss him, and he returns it.

He starts to undo his belt, taking it off. I unzip and unbutton his pants, reaching my hand into his boxers. My hand finds his already hard cock. I smirk and take it out of his pants, stroking it once or twice. He groans and sits down in his chair and I kneel in front of him. I kiss the tip, before licking it. He groans again, gripping the arms of the chair tightly until his knuckles turn white. I spit of it before stroking it again, and a bead of precum spills out. I laugh and lick it off, before taking his cock in my mouth. I stroke the inches that i can't fit in my mouth. I bob my head up and down it, and he lets out low moans, his hand making its way to my hair. He balls his fist, tangling his fingers in my hair, guiding me up and down his shaft. I moan on it, the vibrations making him shiver. He holds me there for a second, cumming in my mouth.

He holds his moan back, and pulls my head away. I laugh up at him, feigning innocence in my eyes. His eyes soften for a second before he pulls me up, pushing the paperwork off of his desk, causing them to fall on the floor. He makes my sit on the desk, spreading my legs wide with his hands. He peels my underwear off, and runs his finger over my slit. I moan, and he smirks. "So wet, huh, darling?" I moan once again at his pet name.

He rubs my clit, and i buck my hips. He takes his free hand, and holds me down by my stomach. He puts his face between my thighs, and licks at my clit as if he hadn't eaten in days. I cover my mouth, moaning. He pushes his tongue into me, eating me out. I throw my head back, moaning. His thumb rubs my clit, adding to my pleasure. He moves his thumb, moving his tongue to my clit and flicking it. I gaspo and arch my back, and I cum. He places his tongue under my entrance, eating the cum. I moan at the sight, and he flips me over.

He bends my over the desk and slaps my ass, making me yelp, but he quickly covers my mouth. "Don't be so loud, darling. You don't want anyone to hear, right?" He whispers in my ear. I shake my head, shivering. He smirks and places the tip of his thick cock at my entrance. "Ready, baby?" I quickly nod, and he plunges his girth into me. My eyes widen, and i arch my back, grabbing the edge of the desk.

He waits a few seconds to let me adjust, and then he starts pounding into me. I moan through his hand, not caring about if someone hears. He smacks my ass, before grabbing my neck. "Didn't I just tell you to be quiet? Huh? Answer me!" He says, slapping my ass a couple of times, pounding into me still.

"Y... Yes! Y- did! 'M sorry!" He smiles and slows down, taking his hand off my throat. He rubs the hand prints on my ass, soothing the sting. He goes slow, but still rough. I moan every time he thrusts into me. He reaches his hand under me, rubbing my clip as he picks up the pace. I choke back a moan, biting my lip. He presses kisses to my shoulder blade, whispering in my ear. "You take it so well, baby. you feel so good. Do I feel good, hm? This big cock thrusting into your tight pussy?"

I nod, and he smacks my ass, not as hard, but enough for it to sting. "Words, sweetheart." I moan, and I nod, answering. "Yeah! S... So good! Mmh!"

He takes another deep thrust, before I cum, squeezing him. He pulls out, cumming on my clit. We both moan in sync, before he helps me clean up, putting his belt and dressing himself back up. I dress myself up and well, fixing myself.

He opens a locked drawer, and gives me a sheet of paper. "Here, this has all of the answers. Make sure to get two or three answers wrong so its not so obvious. Return it to me by tomorrow so that I could put your grade in."

[buckshotanon]

This is a simple question with a complicated answer. There are a few factors we currently have no way of knowing that will determine what this scenario would look like, namely how much time passed between the extermination and the beginning of season 2. For that reason and just based on not yet knowing what will happen, I might go over this again once season 2 releases.

But even without that information, the big thing to figure out would be what finding him "in time" means. As I mentioned before, a non-penetrating TBI like the one he faced (getting hit on the back of the head, causing additional damage to the front of the brain as it strikes the inside of the skull) would kill in about 8-24 hours depending on severity, but other complications and longterm damage would occur in a shorter period.

Technically, it can take considerably longer like days or weeks for complications with a head injury to reveal themselves, but the force Alastor hit the wall with, and how his head made contact with that wall, added to everything else he had going on is where the acute time frame comes from, instead of subacute which would have given the longer range. The time frame for debilitating complications could also be significantly shorter, only a matter of minutes. But if it were that bad, he wouldn't have gotten up from Adam's blow, or if he did, would have been on the brink of death before the battle ended, let alone however long it took to find him.

So what defines "in time" would be between simply preventing death, or preventing anything hard to recover from. It is possible for people to recover remarkably well from even severe TBIs, but the chances are directly correlated with how long it takes for that person to receive medical attention. It is possible in any case, as long as the person is still breathing there is a chance, but probable is another matter entirely.

The ideal would be for Alastor to be found immediately before the worst of the symptoms could reveal themselves, but the one most likely to accomplish that would be his soul owner, and even then it could take some time to locate and reach him depending on where he was.

Given his circumstances and adrenaline, Alastor's symptoms have the highest chance of manifesting somewhere between 30 minutes and 2 hours, and once they did, they would worsen fast. There is wiggle room, it could happen much faster or slower, but adrenaline can do this funny thing where it won't tell you about dire problems until the adrenaline fades, and Alastor's adrenaline would be extremely active. Even if his symptoms were on the faster end, it may take him some time to process there is something wrong.

With this in mind, for the best chance of longterm recovery, the hotel would need to start looking, if not immediately, within a couple hours. If all that matters is him being alive, the max would be about 12-20 hours. He could be dead by that point if the injury was on the very severe side (in which case the max would be around 5-6 hours), but that would be a general maximum for what would constitute "in time."

Alastor ended up in the radio tower, and with the aid of adrenaline, he should be able to make it there from wherever he first was. Not gracefully, I've only talked about the head injury thus far but for full realistic injuries, the rest of his torso is some combination of broken, bruised, ruptured, sprained, or strained, which would cause even a non-damaged brain to be not in the best state. That alone would make my personal max for starting the search 12 hours, but humanoids are weirdly durable sometimes, so it wouldn't be strange for Alastor's max on his own to be longer. Him making it to the fallen radio tower means he wasn't too far from the rest of the hotel, so once the search began, it shouldn't take more than an hour or so to actually find him. It could take longer, easily, but if they started in the surrounding area it shouldn't take too long.

That's the set up out of the way. From here, there are a few different ways this could go, entirely depending on the severity of the brain bleed and how long it took to be found.

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

ASAP: The ideal scenario, Alastor was found somewhere between immediately and within an hour or two. Even if the symptoms have manifested, unless the head injury was extremely severe, he has a higher chance of still being conscious. He may be disoriented and suffer a headache, and could experience post-traumatic amnesia as many who suffer a TBI do, but that would be temporary, and his chances of longterm recovery with proper medical care would be greatly increased.

Even if his symptoms haven't manifested, one of the most obvious signs would be one or both eyes being visibly dilated when they shouldn't be. The moment after being struck by Adam when his eyes were different, one black and one red, could be made into a stylistic way of conveying that, but a difference in pupils alone would be more realistic. One or both ears may begin to droop as well. Both of these signs would become more apparent the more time has gone on.

Moderate Time: Alastor was found within 4-10 hours. The chances of finding him conscious have notably decreased. If he is conscious, he will be experiencing clear symptoms, and is almost guaranteed to be in a state of post-traumatic amnesia. How that manifests would be a state of extreme confusion, struggle to remember things (not full-blown amnesia, but would not be able to answer menial things like conversations he had or what he ate that day), not recognizing people, and could become either very aggressive or unusually docile—it could go either way, but given Alastor's emotional state he would not be able to control, he has a higher chance of aggression. He may experience photophobia, dizziness, nausea and vomiting, and have lost a considerable amount of his vision. Depending on severity, he would struggle to speak or understand speech, and if he still had that ability, his words would come out slurred.

Something that would be apparent around this point is Alastor may struggle or be unable to regulate his body temperature. He could be either too hot or too cold, depending on external factors like weather and how his other injuries impact his circulation.

In the event he still has enough control of his extremities (unlikely considering everything with his torso, as well as numbness and loss of coordination, but it is possible) he may try to wander, which could make finding him more difficult. An argument could be made of him going to the radio tower while in a wandering state, searching for somewhere familiar because of the confusion.

If found unconscious, his chances of survival would be reduced, but he would by that point not be in a coma, though he could fall into one rather easily. If given medical intervention fast enough, he should be saved before too much damage is done, and if he did fall into a coma, his estimate to wake up would be sooner rather than later. But he will have a rockier longterm recovery than if he was found earlier; there could be permanent effects or ones that take longer to recover from.

If found conscious, that greatly improves his chances of a smoother recovery, and the goal would be to keep him conscious for as long as possible until getting the proper help. This may be difficult to do, and will become more so the more time has passed. If he does lose consciousness, the goal becomes waking him up again.

Be careful if the method of choice is rubbing a knuckle against his sternum. That can be risky with Alastor's situation, and should not be done at all if his ribs are broken.

Maximum Time: Alastor was found at the maximum duration for this specific brain bleed that is still survivable. He will not be conscious—he will more than likely be in a coma or on the brink of one, and will have experienced seizures.

The goal would be to wake him up if possible, but that would be doubtful. He would need immediate emergency surgery, with the chances of success being reduced but still possible. Something to take note of in any of these outcomes but specifically this one is he may score lower on the GCS (Glasgow Coma Scale) than is actually true, on account of his other injuries making it difficult to get a reliable score. Testing his motor responses doesn't work when there is damage to the muscles and bones that are important to those responses.

Where he would score on the GCS isn't guaranteed, and even if it was, that test isn't an end-all-be-all especially for reasons mentioned above, but a rule of thumb would be somewhere between 3-8. How long he would remain comatose and the ramifications of that would depend on his starting point.

If by some miracle he was able to be woken up, it would be only in technicality. He would not be coherent or responding to people around him beyond reacting to stimuli.

Making a full or significant recovery is possible especially with the proper care, but a poor neurological outcome would be the standard to prepare for.

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

Which of these do I think is most likely? If his soul owner is allowed to intervene, somewhere between ASAP and moderate. If it's the hotel, somewhere between moderate and max. That's not me making any commentary on the characters, but based on the circumstances and everything going on, his soul owner would have an objective edge the hotel would not have unless Alastor had enough of his sense about him to send an SOS to Husk or Niffty. Asking someone with serious head trauma and disorientation to have enough sense to do that is a tall order, and even if he did, it may be too late to do so successfully by that point. Hence moderate or max.

Timeline, Treatment, and Other Complications

Obviously, how this would impact Alastor's involvement in season 2 depends on the question proposed earlier: how much time was there between the extermination and the beginning of season 2? All signs from the finale song and the scenes after point to the idea season 2 will take place immediately if not extremely soon after the end of season 1, at most the same period between the pilot and the series proper of about a week. That means the real question to ask is how long was between the extermination and the end of the finale song.

The average time from research to build a large hotel is about 2.5-3 years, though the fastest record time was allegedly 15 days based on foundation built ahead of time and some other factors that still left the end product of questionable safety but technically done. From what we see of the hotel's construction involving no shipment wait times and the use of magic, a guess of the Hazbin Hotel taking 2.5-3 weeks feels more reasonable. However, that estimate has a caveat in this scenario that may cause things to move slower, because having someone in the hospital tends to reduce morale and energy, even if only by a little. With construction, the opposite happening of manic energy and determination to get things done would lead to concerns of the building being structurally sound, so that speed would cancel itself out.

Based on that estimate, Alastor would have 25-28 days, a little under a month, from point of injury until the expectation to do things during season 2.

That's not going to happen.

Anyone who has had a concussion can probably attribute to what a bastard they can be to shake. While most concussions do resolve themselves for the most part in a week or two, with an average of roughly 10 days, even milder concussions can linger for months. The TBI Alastor is facing is a bit more than a mild-moderate concussion.

Some brain hemorrhages don't require surgery. Alastor may be able to escape that if he was found ASAP, but it's more probable that even in the best circumstance, he would need at least decompression, drilling a hole in the skull to drain blood and relieve pressure in the brain. What is much more likely, especially in the worse cases, is a piece of his skull would be removed and replaced, to relieve the pressure and manage the source of the bleeding. Congratulations, Alastor, whatever is going on with the back of your hair might spare you some of the impromptu haircut that will result from this.

How long recovery from this would take depends on if the piece of skull can be replaced at this time or would need to be done as a follow-up surgery. In the case of emergencies where there wasn't scheduling ahead of time or if the swelling in Alastor's brain was a serious concern beyond draining the blood, it's more common this would need to be a second procedure and the patient would wear a helmet in the interim, but it can be done at once, which would make the surgery a craniotomy instead of a craniectomy + cranioplasty.

Given the options for who would be bringing him in, there would be a much higher incentive to do the procedure all at once. Royalty being involved would magically make this procedure more convenient for everyone, because that is the world we live in. Obviously, this would change if Alastor needed time to reduce the swelling in his brain and would die without that time, but if the swelling could be managed in other ways, a craniotomy would be the goal. If the removed piece of skull was too damaged to be placed back in, a metal plate would be used instead. There are other synthetic materials that could be used, but doubtfully on that short of notice.

So, Alastor is once again down some skull. Between this and the chances of vision loss, he can expect some feelings of déjà vu. Not that he would be conscious for that déjà vu for a while. The procedure itself would take somewhere between 3-5 hours, but could run longer when accounting for everything else going on in his torso that could make him harder to stabilize. Even if none of his other injuries were serious enough to require surgery, his slash wound from Adam would need to be treated at some point, and that would add more time, up to around an hour.

Tests would be done to make sure no broken bones were about to puncture organs and none of those organs had ruptured. If they had, surgery would be significantly more intensive, and how long it would take depends on the organ. It should be mentioned if there was serious damage to his organs, that would drastically reduce the time to find him before he succumbs, I wouldn't go beyond 3-5 hours at most. If it was a ruptured heart or pneumothorax, he would be done for or at least in grave danger before ASAP could find him. But the ask was about the head injury, so I won't go into this quite as much.

All of this is important when accounting for how long Alastor would be looking at for recovery. Typically with a craniotomy, what would follow after leaving the operating room is a transfer to the ICU to be monitored for roughly 24 hours, and he would stay in the hospital an additional week.

However, what complicates this would be the event Alastor did fall comatose, which would mean a prolonged state of unconsciousness, that requires more dedicated care and a longer stay in the ICU to support his spinal cord, breathing, organ function, and circulation until he has woken up. For that reason, the aftermath of this surgery would likely be exclusively in the ICU, and he would stay there anywhere from a few days to a few weeks depending on the severity of his condition.

There could be an argument made to transfer him somewhere else for personal safety reasons, but that would not be a discussion for at least the first 24 hours, or until he was stabilized enough to be out of immediate danger. After that point, it still wouldn't be preferred, but provided the place he was being transferred to had the necessary equipment and there could be a team to monitor him, it can be done.

From the head injury alone even if a coma was factored in, stabilizing could be done in 24-48 hours. As he was monitored, professionals could more reliably determine what else is going on, and if either the angelic nature of the wound or any contaminants got into his bloodstream that could cause infection and sepsis. Both concern and likelihood of infection and blood poisoning would increase in direct relation with how long it took for him to be found. This wouldn't be as much of a concern if he was found within a couple hours, whereas if it took closer to a day, it would be wise to prepare in advance for an infection to reveal itself.

How long an infection or sepsis would take to treat and recover from depends on its severity. Given in any scenario, Alastor would need to be found in less than a day, neither of these would have time to set in with too much severity, so his recovery from that would be more in line with somewhere between a few days and 2 weeks.

If he was going to stay in the hospital for acute recovery, he would be there for a minimum of 8 days, but provided he did fall into a coma, he would remain for the duration of that coma. If he were going to be transferred somewhere, that would become a discussion within 24-48 hours only if measures can be taken to ensure he is still cared for and won't die the second he leaves immediate care. However, if he were going to be transferred, it would not be to the hotel, unless it could somehow be guaranteed the room he was staying in would in no way be impacted by what is going on around it. I don't think I need to explain why a patient of questionable consciousness recovering from a skull surgery in a construction zone is a bad idea. Once the hotel was rebuilt, he could be brought there, but not while it was an active construction zone.

Alastor's head would need to be elevated while on bedrest, so most likely he would be in a semi-sitting position similar to what a recliner would provide, instead of being laid down flat. There are certain beds and pillows to make that possible, and that is one of many things that should he be transferred outside of the hospital, the people taking him would need to be aware of.

Something else that would be taken note of is the state of Alastor's spine after making contact with the wall. Any injuries to the spine are a bit different and need to be brought up, because unlike anything else going on in his torso, this directly relates to what is going on in his brain and how his recovery would be handled going forward. To put it bluntly, the human back is a design travesty and there is almost a guarantee of some type of issue that no amount of ability to twist and crack his neck would save him from.

What do I mean by that? Alastor's spinal cord itself didn't seem to be all too damaged, and if his ribs and muscles took the brunt of that damage, he wouldn't necessarily be paralyzed. He certainly could be, but going by the idea he was able to get away and walk to the radio tower, then his spinal cord is intact. What Alastor has to worry about going forward is less fatal and more annoying, and that comes down to costal cartilage and spinal discs.

Costal cartilage is cartilage of the ribs, and the reason to be careful of this is that when that cartilage is damaged, it has a tendency to make a person's individual ribs more prone to dislocating themselves with minimal provocation. When this happens, depending on which rib it is, but especially if it's in the upper ribs, it can lead to losing function of the arm on the impacted side. With a head injury, this would be a serious problem if the body in response doesn't properly relearn how to use that arm, because during the healing stages it would just stop working. This can be difficult to treat if it's one of the top three ribs, because that can be mistaken by the body and by specialists for the neck being out of alignment, and cause them to treat the wrong thing while the rib continues to cause problems. However, if the rib is found, it wouldn't be dislocated enough that it couldn't be put back.

There are warning signs one can notice when this is about to happen, but what those warning signs are vary from person to person. One example is a popping sensation in the sternum with movement, and that will happen in the days leading up to a rib detaching in the back.

And the other problem to look out for is spinal discs. Nothing loves killing itself quite like spinal discs. If I had a dollar for every time I've seen L4-L5 and/or L5-S1 decide it didn't want to exist anymore and either degenerate or explode for no reason, I would be able to pay my rent for a few months. If a spinal disc has a legitimate opportunity to end its own existence, it will, and it won't hesitate.

This is where Alastor's ability to crack and twist his neck may come to his advantage and make him more resistant to this, but as I have mentioned before, the spine reacts differently to doing something versus having it done by an external force. Therefore, it is still worth watching out for the chance at least one of Alastor's spinal discs makes an attempt to end his entire way of life. This wouldn't be fatal on its own, but it can be agonizingly painful for reasons of no longer having a working cushion between vertebrae, as well as the nucleus pulposus (jelly-like substance in discs) getting onto and agitating nearby nerves, and being attacked by the immune system that doesn't recognize it outside of where it belongs. That detail is an issue if Alastor is fighting an infection or sepsis, and could push his immune system further into overdrive.

Spinal discs could be treated with a different surgery quite easily, but because this isn't fatal, it would be something to talk to Alastor himself about before doing. People can recover from this without surgeries or nerve ablations, it will only take some time. This may be subject to change if Alastor's immune system is pushed too far, and he is unable to make a judgement call.

What makes spinal discs a particular problem for Alastor with a head injury is where these herniations occur. If it happens in the neck, it would cause sharp pains in the arm and shoulder. If it happens in the lower back, this pain would be down one or both legs and into the foot. Anything impacted would suffer considerable muscle weakness and struggling to move, which would impair recovery. Lower back would be the worst, because this would directly impact Alastor's ability to walk. Not paralyzed, but the muscles being so agitated and weak that it would be very difficult.

Adding on inevitable small vertebral fractures, not enough to necessarily damage the spinal cord but enough to cause concern and a need to be careful, he would be put in a back brace. It would need to be one that doesn't compress any ribs if they are broken or agitate his chest wound, but keeps the spine supported. The condition of his spine, discs, and ribs would need to be monitored alongside his head to determine what lingering problems came from the head or something else.

How This Impacts Season 2

With this out of the way, we can give a more accurate assessment of where Alastor would be at in his recovery by the end of the time-skip, or at the end of the estimated 25-28 days.

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ASAP: If found in the early aftermath of the battle before too many symptoms manifest, Alastor could receive treatment quickly. This would not change the severity of his injury, but it would have given blood less time to cause pressure and additional damage in the brain. He doubtfully lost consciousness, and if he did, not for very long. He would remain in the hospital for the duration of surgery recovery and be monitored, but over the next few weeks, he could be well into the subacute stages of his recovery and be in active rehabilitation and therapy by the end of the timeskip.

How long treatment takes depends on the extent of the damage and Alastor's personal response to that treatment. He could have a more difficult time with this when accounting for other potential injuries and especially the chest wound that would hinder movement. Chronic headaches and migraines would be something to look out for as well, though they wouldn't be labeled chronic for a few more months. Head pain is a normal response to head trauma, so frequent headaches would not inherently mean chronic during this stage, but it's worth looking out for.

He could be an active presence among the cast, but he would not be able to maintain his role as hotelier. His role in the conflict would be hindered by those limitations, as well as photophobia, which would continue on into the coming weeks or months (to be elaborated on), and potentially a need to relearn speech.

Moderate Time: Finding him in this timeframe has the most variety in what could be happening. Like with finding him ASAP, he would be able to receive treatment and may not have lost consciousness, but the damage has had time to cause continued problems in his brain. He would most likely remain in a state of post-traumatic amnesia and disorientation for anywhere from a few hours to a few days, but not going past a week.

Alastor would remain on bedrest or resting while avoiding rigorous activity for the majority if not the entirety of the 25-28 days. This would be the time to monitor him and check for any lasting effects. He may experience a struggle to speak, temporary vision loss, fatigue and brain fog, balance and dizziness problems, spasticity, sensory impairment, chronic headaches and migraines, and ataxia (struggle to move and control muscles, most obvious in extremities). His ability to control his emotions will also be hindered during recovery, and he may be prone to emotional outbursts.

The emotional outbursts can be managed by prescribed anti-anxiety medication. It might seem like a bizarre medicine to prescribe for a head injury, but it's done in scenarios exactly like this. That would be one of multiple medications he was given which could include any combination of anticonvulsants, non-opioid pain relievers, anticoagulants, stimulants, steroids (not the ones most think of), diuretics, and stool softeners.

Sexual dysfunction also can happen, but if he was impacted by that, it would be something to be discovered further down the line. That does not seem like something that would impact season 2.

If he did lose consciousness and was unable to be woken up, or if the damage was bad enough he was induced into a coma to heal, his prognosis would be better than if found later. Loss of consciousness would most likely be in the range of 6-48 hours, but if he had truly fallen into a coma, a few days to a week would be a rough estimate. His recovery would be paused for him to regain consciousness and awareness (to be elaborated on*).

Maximum Time: Alastor has a high chance of spending most of the 25-28 days in a coma and recovering from that coma—either being in one on his own, or being induced into one to give his brain time to heal. Being induced would be a more likely situation if this were the moderate time, but in the case of maximum, that probably happened on its own.

How long he would be in a coma does depend, and the likelihood of a longterm recovery does relate to that. With the amount of damage he would have suffered from the blow itself and the amount of time before getting medical care, he could be looking in the range of 2-4 weeks.

Technically, it is possible especially for the maximum time, he could be comatose for all of season 2. But that feels like a cop-out answer, and if it were to happen, it would reduce his chances of longterm recovery even further, so we're getting into specifics.

Looking at the range of 2-4 weeks, and factoring in a storytelling standpoint of this question, that means that Alastor would be either waking up by the end of episode 1, or if he was closer to the 2 week range, he could have regained awareness by the end of episode 1.

* This is more common knowledge than it used to be, but media depictions of people waking up from a coma are inaccurate to what it's actually like. There is no immediate waking up like someone was asleep, because unconsciousness and sleep may look the same from an outside perspective, but are notably different. It is a very gradual process over the course of days to a couple weeks of slowly regaining awareness, where Alastor may seem awake for short periods ranging from a few minutes to an hour, but he is not all-there. His eyes might start to open more frequently, he might show signs of agitation and confusion based on instincts, but there will be little higher level of responsiveness. Once he has regained awareness, he may remember very little about this period.

To put that simply, he could be mistaken for being fully awake once he opens his eyes, but that's not the full story. This is the waking up stage, not necessarily being actively awake and alert. Having any conversation and expecting a coherent answer would need to wait until this stage has passed.

This scenario would mean he would need to be more heavily watched than any other, to look out for complications like infections from the surgery like pneumonia, deep vein thrombosis (blood clots in the legs that can form during long periods of inactivity like being bedridden), seizures, or a stroke. He would need to be monitored at all times even after waking up to make sure there are no lasting complications like this.

Though a possibly unexpected benefit would be whereas moderate means Alastor would be more aware of everything such as pain and vision loss, the time unconscious would double as the time for those aspects to begin healing and be less of an active presence when he does awaken. If he did experience vision loss, it wouldn't be back fully for a few more months, but there would be enough time to establish this is not a permanent thing.

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But, in any case, every one of these scenarios would have Alastor out of the hospital either by the end of the timeskip or by roughly episode 2 of the season at the latest, assuming he was staying there and not cared for somewhere else like Cannibal Town or the later completed Hotel. If found ASAP or Moderate, he could be in the subacute stages of healing, whereas with Maximum, he would be further behind, but at the very least conscious and alert early on and able to begin those therapies.

Relearning to walk and speak if those is something he lost would be the highest priorities, as well as making sure there are no continence problems. But of the things Alastor himself could focus on, it would be walking and speaking. Providing physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy would be ideal, but it may be difficult to find all the necessary people, so at least have some type of plan to make up the difference.

While there is a broad range for how long it takes to recover from a head injury like this, a slight majority of patients are able to walk with minimal help after six months. More specific hand movements and speech could be in the realm of a year or two, but there are plenty of patients who have made a remarkable recovery within the six-month range.

From my experience, Alastor would be an interesting patient to have, and one of the more difficult. There are two types of patient he could fall under:

Patients who are willing to do whatever they have to for recovery. Extremely receptive to the point they sometimes overdo it. Those are the ones who will rest if they are specifically told to, but need to be very specific on how long, otherwise they will start trying to do things before they should and set themselves back on accident.

Patients who refuse to accept they need help. May either forcefully ignore the problem or try to treat themselves with no guidance. They won't let anyone know they are struggling, and do more harm to themselves than good.

In most cases, the second option becomes the first option once they have a harsh wake up call, something that could take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. Reasons for why vary but it tends to come down to dignity and pride, or if they have loved ones the believe they need to be strong for. They don't want to be seen as vulnerable or weak.

These are some of the toughest patients, not because they are bad or even difficult people, but if the therapist doesn't thread the needle, it can lead to the patient not being as receptive to treatment or actively fighting against it. Through no fault of the patient's own, this often happens subconsciously and causes feelings of stress and shame for the patient. Obviously, some patients can become spiteful and hard to work with, but those are not as common as people seem to think.

With these patients, it's a delicate balance of making sure they know they are making progress without babying them, and pushing them like they want without overdoing it and hurting them. Place yourself into the shoes of the patient, figure out what they would consider true progress.

Don't get overexcited about accomplishments. An innocent mistake to make, but if this type of patient is going to become agitated, being treated like a child is most of the time how it happens. The patient is not a toddler taking their first steps or saying their first words. But they do need to know when they are making good progress.

Don't be super delicate and dance around difficult topics with them. But being too harsh or blunt with those topics can cause feelings of stress and hopelessness. Realism is important, with a lean towards making sure belief in the patient is conveyed. Tracking progress and showing data tends to be useful for this.

An effective way of tracking progress is to give them goals one step at a time, something that would distinctly be a challenge to work towards but a realistic one that they won't hurt themselves pushing for. Just enough that they feel like they're doing something, and you believe they are strong enough to get through it, without doing harm if they try to push just a bit more, or causing psychological distress if they're not quite ready.

It really is a very delicate balance, even professionals make mistakes on it all the time. But it is so rewarding when it's done right, and can have amazing results for the patient. A good way to think about these types of patients is "high risk, high reward," because of how easy it is to mess up, but if done right the patient may heal better and/or faster than average.

Provided someone manages to accomplish this, and stops Alastor from overdoing it or pushing himself too far, he may be able to see significant recoveries within the six-month range. He may not have everything back and struggle in some areas, but his prognosis could have a positive outlook. If symptoms were to linger and become chronic beyond during the healing phase, he may have difficulty concentrating, minor memory problems, headaches (though they would reduce in frequency), and fatigue.

The main thing Alastor could struggle with is regaining speech. When I say he will struggle to speak, I don’t mean he would lose the ability to make sounds. He can still communicate, but like with his hands, he will struggle with precise muscle movements such as controlling the facial muscles that help properly turn sound into words. Notably, he will need to give up the permanent smile. If the smile is stitched on, the stitches need to come out (this may be difficult if the smile was stitched on my someone else). On paper, him not using those muscles and keeping them in place would mean less muscles to relearn, but it would double to mean he would require more effort for other facial muscles and take a longer time.

However, one aspect of Alastor’s powers has shown him speaking with his mouth closed and the words still come through, his teeth just start glowing. If he is able to speak without facial movement or use of muscle as part of his powerset and that wasn’t impacted by his staff breaking, then he wouldn’t have trouble with speech at all beyond any struggles with focus that could make it easy to forget words. But he would still need to relearn to use those facial muscles eventually.

Additionally, depending on how well his vision returns, he may need to wear glasses instead of only the monocle. This may be temporary, it is rare for vision loss to be permanent, but he may need the glasses longterm.

He may also have struggles with reading, either having to outright relearn or simply suffering mental fog that makes it hard to focus. It can happen that people can read just fine but the brain gets stuck on processing words despite them being read through.

Lifestyle changes would be important. Obvious things like avoiding overworking himself, adapting to any limitations he may have, and making sure to avoid substances like alcohol, tobacco, and drugs for a minimum of 3-6 months (depending on severity of the injury) but closer to a year on the safe side, after which reintroduce them gradually provided that's what he chooses and a doctor deems that safe, and he is not on prescription medications that react badly to those substances. All of those substances can worsen the outcome of a head injury during the recovery stages, and Alastor may have a significantly reduced alcohol tolerance going forward.

He will need to cut cannibalism. Cannibalism has too many negative impacts on the brain for him to be able to continue with that aspect of his diet. That isn't something to be lenient or gradual on. No cannibalism. If he insists on cannibalism and will not listen to reason, there needs to be a set time frame he is not allowed to engage in cannibalism, like for example a year or two. There can be nothing vague like "when you're better," that is subjective and patients are willing to abuse technicalities or claim to be better to get access to something they're restricted from. He wouldn't be leaving the hotel much if at all during the recovery period, but avoid going to Cannibal Town if temptation becomes a problem.

Relying on his powers would be something to avoid, but as long as his powers are used to supplement his recovery instead of take away from it, that would be welcome.

I do need to emphasize that even if his prognosis could be positive with proper care, this would be a grueling process for everyone involved. Caring for a patient with a head injury, especially someone you know and care about, is a physically and emotionally demanding full-time task. There will be a period of time Alastor is unable to control his emotions and may be prone to outbursts and episodes of aggression (threats, swearing, scratching and biting are common occurrences) and confusion, especially in the early days. It could go in the other direction of him being very docile and in no way acting like the person the people of the hotel know, which can be just as traumatic for people caring for a loved one. This will be reduced over time as he recovers and regains more of his ability to control that, but it will go beyond the initial recovery. The rates of depression in the first year following a TBI is extremely high compared to those without a TBI, and setbacks in the recovery would also be setbacks in Alastor's mental health.

Not everyone is able to handle this. The hotel would need to be prepared for that, this isn't something that can be fixed with summer camp strategies. Optimism is a good thing, but there needs to be an understanding of the situation, and not trying to ignore reality. For a while even in the best case, it may feel like things will not be okay. Alastor may take strides forward and just as easily take strides back. It's not linear. It would be important they take care of themselves and support one another just as much as Alastor. Some may need to acknowledge they are not cut out for the long haul, while others may have a much easier time, and whoever can successfully do it would impact the story of the season.

When asking how Alastor having a head injury would impact season 2, it would have ripple effects onto the other characters because of how demanding it can be. It may not change things too drastically in other plotlines, but it's worth noting.

We have no way of knowing how long season 2 will go on for in terms of its timeline. Season 1 was over the course of six months. It could be different on account of a different antagonist, but six months feels like a reasonable estimate. Where would Alastor be at?

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This estimate is based on the scenario where recovery goes relatively smoothly, he stays consistent with the work necessary, and an effort is being made to reduce his stress as much as possible. This does account for a grace period he may resist treatment for reasons mentioned above. Any extra injuries or illnesses are also accounted for, but as they would be healing simultaneously, the difference isn't all too substantial.

ASAP: Alastor has regained the ability to walk. He would still need to be careful not to push himself, but he can walk around the hotel and outside with company. He will be able to take care of himself. He may have some trouble with refined movements like speaking or writing, but he will have made progress and have some or even most of his range of motion. He may have lingering issues such as headaches, fatigue, and brain fog, but these should be reducing in frequency. He has regained control of his emotions. Will suffer from mild photophobia.

If he experienced trouble with spinal discs, he may experience pain, and his back may be prone to going out during flare-ups if it's in the low back, but he will have regained sensation in any limbs that were previously numb. (If he opted to treat this with surgery, this would not be a problem, or a reduced one.)

May experience struggles with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. If the symptoms continue beyond this point, he may want to be screened for a formal diagnosis.

He can return to some of his duties as hotelier, but nothing strenuous and the workload would need to be reduced. Maintain a gradual progression of mentally-stimulating activity, but make sure not to overdo it and take breaks.

Moderate Time: Alastor may still struggle to walk. The problem may be less in muscle control or balance and more endurance leaving something to be desired, but he should be able to walk at least short distances. He may need to be accompanied, but he would be able to take care of himself for the most part besides that.

Refined movements may be a problem, but he will have gained back some range of motion. He could still struggle with cognitive tasks like reading due to brain fog or headaches, but this is improving and will continue to improve. He has regained control over his emotions. Will suffer from photophobia.

Like with ASAP, if he experienced trouble with spinal discs, he may experience pain, and his back may be prone to going out during flare-ups if it's in the low back, but he will have regained sensation in any limbs that were previously numb. (If he opted to treat this with surgery, this would not be a problem, or a reduced one.)

May experience struggles with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. If the symptoms continue beyond this point, he should be screened for a formal diagnosis.

He is not ready to return to his duties as hotelier, but he can help with tasks around the hotel. Once he is consistently steady on his own, he should be able to return to his duties in the next few weeks.

Maximum Time: Alastor will have some ability to walk, but may still struggle considerably with balance. He may need to wear a gait belt to prevent falls on bad days, and have someone close-by.

Progress will be limited on refined movements, but it does exist. He may be able to speak some with effort. Headaches and brain fog may be a continued problem inhibiting daily life, but this will be gradually reducing. He has regained control of his emotions, but may have episodes of losing control. Will suffer from photophobia.

If he experienced trouble with spinal discs, he will experience pain, and his back may be prone to going out during flare-ups. He may not have gained back as much mobility, but the numbness in impacted extremities should be gone or reduced. (If he opted to treat this with surgery, this would not be a problem, or a reduced one.)

Mental health needs to be carefully watched. Patients struggling with a severe injury getting in the way of progress may be prone to decline the more time passes.

He is not ready to return to his duties as hotelier, and should focus on therapy and recovery. If he becomes restless or feels a need to help with tasks, allow him to do tasks under supervision, but nothing that could be strenuous.

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Over the course of the next few months, and therefore the next few seasons, Alastor's condition would continue to gradually improve. He should be for the most part recovered within 2 years, but have made significant progress by the one-year mark.

There is a myth that the limit to healing is around 2 years. That isn't true. Healing will continue for decades, though it will slow over time. Even if it ends up taking a long time, Alastor will recover eventually.

Photophobia and the Death of the Alastor-Vox Plotline

One thing has continued to come up over the course of this analysis, and that is photophobia. Contrary to what people associate the term "phobia" with, photophobia is not a fear. It's an abnormal sensitivity to light, but as some people may be able to guess, there's a reason emphasis is put on Alastor continuing to suffer from photophobia during this time. The answer is simple: Vox.

Vox being the main antagonist puts Alastor in an interesting position, not even for anything Vox himself could or would do. Vox's head emits a blue light as most modern screens do. Based on that alone, Alastor would not be able to interact with Vox without physical pain or discomfort, with severity depending on a few factors gone through above.

We don't know the details of what Vox's plan is exactly. Various leaks give some clues, both the November ones and one a few months ago that was a chunk of script, but not enough to have a firm grasp on what exactly Alastor being down for the count would change about his plans.

Going into speculation of what his plans could be, one could assume Vox would want access to Alastor in some way. This is a case where Alastor's head injury and resulting photophobia could be his greatest advantage or his worst nightmare, and it all comes down to the care of others. I tend to avoid character discussion unless it's relevant, but it would take a lot to get around "your face brings physical pain to our hotelier," and not have the explanation be a lack of decency from others. Photophobia is not something Alastor would successfully be able to hide.

Because Vox has been willing to send in spies before, I should clarify that a spy wouldn't count when I say accessing Alastor directly would be difficult. A direct meeting would be mean an interaction between the two. Vox himself would have to try really hard to interact with Alastor, be that in a room face-to-face, or any screen-related means of communication.

Therefore, Vox's plans in relation to Alastor and the hotel are either the easiest or the hardest thing he has ever done, and there is no in-between. If he can pull it off, this is a walk in the park. If not, then he's shit out of luck unless he gets really creative really fast.

However, if Alastor is disconnected from the rest of Hell, that would give Vox an advantage with any indirect plans going unchallenged unless someone steps in so Alastor doesn't have to.

The biggest challenge is that Alastor having a head injury means he cannot under any circumstances fight Vox. Not only would photophobia make that battle almost impossible, but there would be another factor to worry about, and that's second impact syndrome. Second impact syndrome essentially means he would suffer fatal or otherwise life-ruining consequences if he sustains another blow to the head before recovering from his current head injury. Fighting anyone, much less Vox who would be almost guaranteed to know that weakness, would not be in the cards.

All of that points to as long as Vox is satisfied not interacting with Alastor directly, this is the easiest evil plan ever. Until, of course, bringing it back around to it all depends on the care of others.

Hyper-vigilance and protective behavior is common in the family and friends of people who suffer a serious injury. The hotel may be more prone to noticing and reacting to things than they would be in any other situation—not just related to Alastor, but in general. That could make Vox's plan incredibly difficult.

In Summary: If any part of Vox's plan is to make Alastor suffer, he got beaten to it by Alastor's own body. There is not much Vox could do that Alastor's body wouldn't say "challenge accepted" to.

Alastor will be conscious and an active character for most or all of season 2, but his storylines will be on pause to focus on recovery. Not much can be done about his soul deal or his situation with Vox when he has to avoid stress, therefore avoid engaging with the plot, to heal.

Everyone else may have ripple effects from this into their plotlines, ranging from emotional draining to hyper-vigilance to actively having their plotlines disrupted if they were viable caretakers.

But at the end of the day, in every scenario, no matter the severity or the time it takes to find him... Alastor is uniquely qualified to opt out of the entirety of the canon season 2 Vox plotline. The real complicated and sad was the head trauma we got along the way.

(Note: Something I do take into consideration is this being Hell, and it feels like it would be a design flaw for head injuries to cause drastic personality changes or mental incapacitating like they could for a living person. That feels like it defeats the purpose of punishing someone in Hell if a head injury can stop that person from existing anymore. If sinners come back by respawning with no consequences we know of unless done in by an angelic weapon, that specifically is most likely not something to worry about. My guess is that at most for plausible mental impacts, memory loss could be something to consider as long as the person themselves remains intact, but that's speculation. That is the reason I didn't go into that aspect of head injuries.)

(Another Note: This is based on one scenario of brain bleed TBI, there is a very wide variety, and all of them have broad ranges of symptoms and recovery times. Different people will have different experiences. Alastor's injury could be debilitating and significantly worse, but as the ask mentioned him healing, I decided to go with a more positive outcome.)

@buckshotanon you talked about how if Alastor's injuries from Adam were realistic he would have a nasty head injury. Assuming the hotel found him in time and got him the help he needed, how much involvement could he feasibly have in season 2? Head injuries take a long time to heal, right? Can't imagine a brain bleed would heal in a timely manner.

👀

[mollypaup]

i think a really great aspect of oofuri is how much it gets mihashi's ass for being overly timid and dependent. it would be really easy to write off the way he and abe interact as being abe's fault because he is overbearing, and a lot of people do, but it has some really great moments of going "hey, you cannot hide behind abe or depend on him to make every decision. it's not good for you, or him, or the team."

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I know that people are rarely their best selves at a funeral, but do you ever just watch your family move through the process of mourning the Patriarch and have a sudden and violent and vivid understanding of Why Everyone Is The Way They Are