#fuck. there's actually something *really* wrong with me.

[rosefinnigen]

OUGH guys not to be a nerd but.

-Myth is and always has been a dynamic study; there is no “original” to myths and there is no “correct” version, there are older and newer versions, but neither is inherently more right or valuable than the other

-Ovid is NOT Greek! Ovid is Roman, and post-Republican to boot — he’s somewhere around 8 or 9 *centuries* after Homer and Hesiod. I disagree with the categories of “original” and “retelling” but if we choose that framework we should not be counting Ovid as original.

-ALL of Greek and Roman myths as we know them today are retellings, and more importantly they are all translations — there are no native speakers of Latin or of Attic Greek alive today. And translation by nature can’t be completely accurate to its source material. Again, we can compare sources, we can talk about older and newer, more and less attested, but at the end of the day it’s all translation for us.

- Unless you are in a very specific and rigorous academic setting, these are just stories. There isn’t a right or wrong way to enjoy them, and there are shockingly few consistent facts when you really look closely. We can engage with ancient sources and stories without being elitist about what “should” be read or propping up certain retellings as more original or important to study.

- i don’t want to pick apart every point here, but there is one I will say something on: People have been re-writing and re-telling the myth of Persephone since long before Tumblr existed, and if we’re already playing fast and loose with sources, the books of Greek myths I was reading at 8 years old or so were plenty fine with treating that story more like Beauty and the Beast than like Hansel and Gretel. You feel me? To call that a “tumblr invention” is doing a disservice to the generations bodice-ripper enthusiasts who hold that particular myth in a special place in their weird, fucked-up hearts (affectionate)

Anyway. That’s all from me really. I realize this is all pretty disorganized but like. The point stands, it’s cool to want to dispel what feel like common misconceptions; it’s also important not to fall into the trap of “actually THIS is what the myth REALLY says” or fail to examine *why* we might trust one source more than another, and whether it actually matters in each specific context we’re working in.

a quick psa to anyone recently getting into greek mythology and is a victim of tumblr and/or tiktok misconceptions:

-there is no shame in being introduced to mytholgy from something like percy jackson, epic the musical or anything like that, but keep in mind that actual myths are going to be VERY different from modern retellings

-the myth of medusa you probably know (her being a victim of poseidon and being cursed by athena) isn't 100% accurate to GREEK mythology (look up ovid)

-there is no version of persephone's abduction in which persephone willingly stays with hades, that's a tumblr invention (look up homeric hymn to demeter)

-as much as i would like it, no, cerberus' name does not mean "spot" (probably a misunderstanding from this wikipedia article)

-zeus isn't the only god who does terrible things to women, your fav male god probably has done the same

-on that note, your fav greek hero has probably done some heinous shit as well

-gods are more complicated than simply being "god of [insert thing]", many titles overlap between gods and some may even change depending on where they were worshipped

-also, apollo and artemis being the gods of the sun and the moon isn't 100% accurate, their main aspects as deities originally were music and the hunt

-titans and gods aren't two wholly different concepts, titan is just the word used to decribe the generation of gods before the olympians

-hector isn't the villain some people make him out to be

-hephaestus WAS married to aphrodite. they divorced. yes, divorce was a thing in ancient greece. hephaestus' wife is aglaia

-ancient greek society didn't have the same concepts of sexuality that we have now, it's incorrect to describe virgin goddesses like artemis and athena as lesbians, BUT it's also not wholly accurate to describe them as aromantic/asexual, it's more complex than that

-you can never fully understand certain myths if you don't understand the societal context in which they were told

-myths have lots and lots of retellings, there isn't one singular "canon", but we can try to distinguish between older and newer versions and bewteen greek and roman versions

-most of what you know about sparta is probably incorrect

-reading/waching retellings is not a substitute to reading the original myths, read the iliad! read the odyssey! i know they may seem intimidating, but they're much more entertaining than you may think

greek mythology is so complex and interesting, don't go into it with preconcieved notions! try to be open to learn!

[sukeruton-san]

A Coffee Heart pt 3

First Previous Next

" Drake, why are you looking at a civilian's family history "

"The adults are Midwestern villains their secret hero son may be my long lost twin and they also have a daughter but she's mostly fine by herself. We might need to overthrow an entire government branch though"

"Excuse, me"

" You're excused"

After chatting with Danny for a while and getting more information without it sounding like an interrogation also making sure he'll be fine for couple of hours I went digging for the rest of the day.

And oh boy you won't believe what I found.

The Fenton's are fucking wild, after breaking through several firewalls just for the town and then even more for their security I found out 'the haunting world' really means haunted like ghost haunted. These people are the definition of mad scientists proudly stating that they built a portal to another dimension in their basement, and judging by the floor plan right below where Danny sleeps, said portal was letting dangerous ghosts out onto the city, but not all of the ghost are like that though.

The 'echoscientist' are heavily biased when it comes to ghost stating that they are 'nonsenseient' and 'don't feel pain' that they need to be a 'contained' 'experimented on' or even 'eradicated'' which is bullshit and horrifying. It's pretty obvious that there are several neutral and even some good ghosts appearing, most noteworthy being Phantom the hero of Amity Park (I know that majority is painting him as a villain but that is so far from the truth! there is an hour long video of him playing with children at the park helping everyone with daily tasks and more) also it seems pretty clear to me that Lazarus water and ectoplasm are similar in compounds which is frankly something I rather not think about right now.

The Fenton's cause so much property damage it's not even funny. they seem to not care for human lives and their excuse for doing so being 'dangerous ghost in the area' when it's clear that Phantom has it handled they don't even shoot at the attacking ghost they shoot at him which is so wrong on so many levels. the anti-ghost inventions they make seemed to even cause several attacks as well. Phantom already has enough on that his plate with the ghost attacks being 24/7.( Poor guy looks exhausted and burnt out) He doesn't need to have to hide/escape/be afraid from the people he's trying to protect. Hell even the red huntress(another vigilante) makes allies with him then shoots him in the back when the danger is over.

Looking closer at Phantom he has fluffy, soft, and thick white hair that seems to move like it's underwater; piercing, glowing, Lazarus green eyes; body type like Danny's but you can see more of the muscle and shape with his clothing being more skin tight, speaking of clothing he looks like he's wearing a hazmat suit with a symbol(a stylized D with a P in its negative space) postered on it and a utility belt. both the symbol and utility belt were added on later to the original suit which seems to resemble the ones the Fenton adults wear constantly

Actually Phantom looks a lot like Danny in general. . .

And Phantom has been called 'halfa' by some of his rouges. . .

No. . .

OH NO

Phantom and Danny looks so similar because they are the same person!?! after looking at Danny's school absences, tardys, and straight up running out of the class with the ghost attacks they line up

Danny seamlessly shows up with injuries that phanton has gained from Ghost attacks (but they're also injuries that seems to come from something else). Danny is apparently known to run from ghost attacks and as soon as that happens Phantom comes around the corner. Phantom uses Fenton tech that has been modified from the original, which probably he did, another similarity to add between us. . .

Wait I can add being a vigilante/hero as a similarity between us as well!

SHIT! Phantom is a ghost, dead, not living, did my twin brother die at some point!?! Cuz he sure as hell wasn't born like that!?! It must have been the day the portal was open. from what I was able to gather he was the only one home that day and the portal spontaneously worked after failing at first. And about a week later the first official ghost attack happened.

Also what is all this shit about the Anti-Echo Acts and the GIW!?!?! A whole government branch dedicated to the horrendous sayings of the Fenton adults!?!?! It looks like a lot of the Ghost attacks are dying down because it's became too dangerous for them to be out there.

We probably wouldn't have even noticed about all bullshittery with the government and this town in pacifically if if it wasn't for danny coming here.

. . . . .

Danny is here.

He is Phantom.

He said he was forced to be here.

He was forced into leaving his town.

The town that is attacking him at every corner.

With a support system that seems to be nonexistent.

And from looking at the old videos/photos he was learning everything from scratch.

With barely any appreciation for the things he does.

With the government trying to dissect him ( the fuck)

So logically after taking down the government and shutting down the portal if possible ( don't know if Danny needs it or if they environment has changed too much) Amity Park wouldn't need a hero if there's nothing to do there.

plus with their treatment of obvious heroes they could deal with their shit themselves, how does he deal with that I don't know.

They wouldn't mind if Phantom stays in Gotham would they? Probably not.

Oh well

He should probably start that welfare check now he'll do a more thorough investigation with the government later, twin brother priority right now.

" Drake, where are you going? You can't just say all of that and leave! Drake!!"

Yup welfare check

(think I'm getting better at writing shit!)

[sinmartini]

"feels so right but it's just so wrong." // red!clark kent

notes: MDNI 18+ summary: clark kent is usually such a nice guy. what's gotten into him? wc: 1714 warnings: red!clark, face fucking with fingers, implications of oral (m receiving), clark being arrogant, pet names, fem!reader, not proofread.

“You are being so annoying,” Red!Clark told you, rolling his eyes as he tucked himself further into the couch settled in the loft. He had been acting so strange all day, completely unlike the best friend you knew and loved. There was a slight attitude in his tone, irritation radiating off of him, and pelting you with nearly everything that had come out of his mouth. It was almost like you were a human punching bag today; if an unkind thought passed through his head, he was more than willing to say it to you.

“What?” You snapped at him, finally nearing the breaking point. Your eyes pointed up at him, shifting your head in his lap to get a better look at you. It wasn’t uncommon to lay your head on his lap, the rest of your body taking up the other end of the couch. Actually, Clark typically liked it when you two did this together. Even though you were just best friends, there was an intrinsic need for you two to be in touch all the time. Hand holding, platonic cuddling, hugs that lasted a minute too long. Today, though… Today he looked frustrated by the way you were clinging to him, the physical touch he had once loved from you be damned. 

Not only had you just experienced something completely terrible, with Clark swooping in to save you at the last minute yet again, but he was being such a jerk.

“I just never realized how needy and clingy you are. What you did back there was dangerous too. Don’t you have any inkling for self preservation?” Clark’s words were one thing, but his actions were indicative of another as he gently stroked his fingers through your hair. 

Was he wrong? Not really. You were needy and clingy when it came to him, but that’s how it’s always been with the two of you. Hell, he was just as clingy most of the time. That’s what came along with knowing his secret; being one of the only people who actually knew the real Clark Kent. 

“Clark, you know I’d do anything for a story. The Daily Planet isn’t going to promote me if I only write boring headlines. I thought that’s why we work so well together? I can bust a crime ring and you’re always there to swoop in.” You were trying to reason with him now, get to the bottom of what was really going on inside of his head. Ever since this morning, it was like Clark had been stripped from all his inhibitions, most of the qualities that made Clark… Well, Clark, had somehow disappeared.

“Good writers can make a story out of anything,” Clark noted, his fingers still stroking through your hair. “They don’t have to put themselves in constant danger and despair to write a think piece.”

“You don’t think I’m a good writer?” You asked him, trying to lift your head from his thigh, needing to create some space between you and your best friend before he could say something that might kill your spirits all together.

“You could be better,” Clark shrugged, his shoulders lifting and collapsing in one cohesive motion as disinterest flickered across his face. You could tell he was done with the conversation now, dishing out that he didn’t think you were that great at what you do, then ready to move on like you weren’t going to have more questions for him.

It wasn’t often that you cried in front of Clark. On the off chance that you did cry in front of him, it was for good reason, and Clark had never made you cry. Until now. The tears that threatened the corner of your waterline were mortifying, and the more you tried to blink them away, the quicker they began formulating. 

Once more, you tried to move yourself off of his lap, but Clark held you in place. Finally, he looked down at you, his facial expression shifting from disinterest to amusement when he saw the tears spilling down your cheeks. There was no way you could have missed the way his lips curled up, just enough to show he enjoyed the sight of you messy on his lap. And there was absolutely no way to miss the way his eyes shimmered with delight, darkening at the sight of your bottom lip quivering.

“You’re crying? C’mon, it wasn’t that mean,” Clark scoffed as his hand found its way from your hair to your chin, holding your face between his thumb and his forefinger. Vulnerability flooded through you as Clark examined every aspect of your face with such intensity, you wanted to shrink under his gaze.

As you opened your mouth, trying to find the words to let Clark know he had been hurting your feelings all day, it wasn’t just this offhand comment that was contributing to your tears, a small sob released from your chest. The words didn’t come out, only heavier breathing and more tears.

“So fussy,” Clark said, his voice sultry and thick as he gently stroked his pointer finger from your chin to your mouth, placing it between your lips and forcing you to open up. You didn’t know why you were being so compliant with it, but Clark pushed his forefinger and middle finger into your mouth, pressing harshly on the middle of  your tongue and you couldn’t help the moan that stirred. “Let me pacify you.”

Your moans were vibrating off of his fingers as he worked them in and out of your mouth, his gaze fixated on you in a way you had never seen before. It wasn’t just lust that filled it eyes; it was carnal desire, like in this moment he needed you as much as you needed him. At least, that is likely what he wanted you to think.

There was something intrinsically hot about the situation as a whole— you laying there, crying on his lap as he hushed you with his fingers in a way that could be written in an erotica book. Nothing about it felt right, but it didn’t feel wrong either, and you could tell Clark felt the same way by the tent growing underneath his jeans, the length of him pressing against the seat of his pants.

Your mouth salivated at the thought of it, creating more lubricant to slide his fingers in and out of your mouth. His eyes traveled to where you were looking, curious as to what had stopped your tears in their tracks and distracted you. A chuckle, deep from his chest sounded, as he realized how desperate you were for it. Part of him had to know, this whole time, that you wanted him in a way that was less than platonic, right?

“Feels so right but it’s just so wrong,” Clark said, reading your mind as he pushed his fingers in deeper. The tip of his finger hit your gag reflex, causing your head to lurch, but he pushed you back down in his lap. The disinterest that flooded his features less than five minutes ago had completely evaporated, now replaced with sheer and utter amusement.

You were so wet, it was uncomfortable. Your core was dripping with desire, soaking into your cotton panties and clinging to you just enough to overwhelm you. With furrowed brows, you tried to talk around Clark’s fingers, and that prior expression of annoyance had returned once more.

“You’re not supposed to be talking, bunny, that’s the point of this. I want you to shut up.” Clark moved his fingers against your tongue once more, pressing and pushing on the insides of your cheeks, carefully grazing the gag reflex every so often in a teasing gesture. He couldn’t help but taunt you, just a bit.

You made a muffled noise, a whine mixed with a moan. Even with his fingers in your mouth, you were still being fussy.

“What?” Clark asked, his tone full of mockery as he offered a sympathetic expression that you knew to be just another one of his taunts. If you weren’t so turned on, you would be trying to figure out what the hell was going on with him, but right now you were too blinded by desire to care— even if that meant Clark was going to mock you the entire time. “You want my cock in your mouth instead? Can’t promise I’ll be nice.”

Your eyes widened and you frantically nodded around his fingers. He didn’t need to see more before he was unbuttoning his pants as you gently lifted your head to allow him to kick them off.

But as soon as Clark’s pants were off, his expression had shifted completely. The mocking expression was now laced with confusion, the evidence of what you were about to get into pressed against the hem of his boxers. 

It was hard for him to look you in the eyes, and you weren’t sure why the sudden shift in demeanor until he asked you, “can you empty out the pockets of my jeans?”

You moved off the couch, picking up his jeans and shuffling through the pockets, feeling silly with the dried tears on your face and Clark’s seeming lack of interest in you now. In the very bottom of his right pocket, there was one ruby earring. You placed it in your palm, showing it to him and that’s when it hit you both.

“Red kryptonite,” Clark said definitively and you thought you could melt right there. His behavior had a reason behind it, yours was driven by pure desire. “I thought it was a ruby earring. I found it at the Talon and was going to turn it into their lost and found.”

“Oh god,” you said, dropping the earring on the floor of the loft. Your feet were moving down the stairs, bolting for the exit before your brain could catch up with you.

Clark stood at the top of the stairs, his half hard dick still swinging in his boxers, “Wait! Let’s talk about this. Please.”

Slowly, with one hand on the door, you turned around to look at him, avoiding looking below the waist. Maybe you two could work things out. In more ways than one.

[luvergirl-866]

trouble in paradise

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 1.1k

c/w - fluff, azzi is cute when she’s mad and paige can’t handle allat

a/n - heavily based off my irl relationships. i have been both p and a in this situation 😔. anyway just a silly lil blurbski for yall (lol at me writing absolutely anything but the prompts you guys send me) (i promise i want to do every single one of them)

“And she was like, ‘You can’t even shoot.’ I don’t even know what got into her, because she knows—she knows I can shoot. Everybody knows I can fucking shoot!”

“Mhm,” Paige mumbles, nestled into the crook of Azzi’s neck, trailing lazy kisses across the soft expanse of skin.

“And you know how patient I am. But I was already annoyed with her because of how she was playing in practice and then she has the audacity to mess with me in the locker room?” Azzi makes a frustrated sound, hand absentmindedly holding the back of Paige’s head, keeping her in place. “And then, and then, she’s all, ‘It was just a joke, chill out!’ Like, what?”

“Crazy work,” Paige replies. She nuzzles up behind Azzi’s ear, letting the tip of her tongue wet the spot slightly.

It’s Azzi’s most sensitive spot, but she doesn’t even react. “And now I seem like a bitch for, for—for sticking up for myself!”

“Nobody thinks you’re a bitch, baby,” Paige reassures, voice gravelly and gentle—a product of the slow, languid sex they had only half an hour prior. How they got from that to this, Paige doesn’t know.

“They do. I can tell. Carol came up to me after and was like, ‘Be nicer to KK, she’s sensitive.’ Well, so am I! But are we being nice to Azzi? No. So, like, what’s the problem here? Why am I being targeted?”

To be fair, Azzi had been a little unnecessarily mean to KK earlier in the locker room. She’d already had a long day and with KK testing her during practice, she wasn’t ready for any teasing afterwards. Paige had tried to tell KK this, catching her before they entered the locker room and saying, “Hey, I know it seems like y’all are just messing around but she’s actually pissed right now.” But KK had laughed her off with a, “Nah, we’re just playin’.”

Paige had let her find out the hard way that when it comes to Azzi, she’s always the expert.

But she knows better than to voice her opinion right now. She’d probably be forced to do the walk of shame out of her own room. Instead, she continues with her ministrations, scraping her teeth against the shell of Azzi’s ear before tugging on her earlobe.

“I just think it’s unfair,” Azzi continues with a huff.

“So unfair,” Paige agrees.

“I don’t like being the bad guy.”

Paige can’t help but smile a little into Azzi’s neck at the thought of her—dimples and curly hair and all—ever being considered ‘the bad guy’ by anybody. Especially by their teammates, who know her well enough to know she’d never hurt a fly. She’s hard to annoy, hard to rile up; Paige is the best at it, and that’s saying something considering it’s difficult even for her to get a reaction out of the younger girl. All the girls know she’d only ever snap at someone if her buttons were really pushed.

KK may be off pouting somewhere, and their teammates may be comforting her, but nobody really thinks Azzi’s in the wrong here. How could they? She’s their princess.

“You’re not, sweet girl,” Paige says, straightening her expression before lifting her head. Azzi’s eyebrows are furrowed, lips formed into an angry pout. Paige’s mind conjures images of those adorable malicious-looking kittens. This time, there’s no hiding her amused smile.

Azzi’s eyebrows go even lower, if that’s possible. “What is funny?”

���Nothin’, baby,” Paige says, trying to distract her with a kiss, but Azzi isn’t having it. She pushes at her chest with a huff, which only serves to make Paige chuckle a little.

“You’re not taking me seriously!” Azzi whines, wriggling around in an attempt to get out from underneath her girlfriend, but Paige has hands on either side of her shoulders, her knees straddling her hips. She’s caged in.

“I am!” Paige says as earnestly as she can. “I wasn’t laughing at you, I thought of something else that was funny.”

Azzi’s pout grows in intensity and Paige isn’t laughing anymore.

One of the many things Paige has learned from dating Azzi is that scientists are lying when they say there are only three basic units of the brain. There is actually a secret, fourth unit that is only unlocked when one gets a girlfriend. And this unit of the brain serves to do one thing and one thing only: make her happy.

If a doctor were to put Paige in an MRI scan, and have Azzi speak to her during it, this is what would happen:

Phrases like ‘Do you think she’s pretty?’, ‘Do you like this picture of me?’, and, of course, ‘Would you love me if I were an inanimate object?’ would light up that brain activity sensor like a christmas tree. Alarm bells would go off along with an urgent, robotic voice saying something like ‘Emergency Situation Detected.’

There’s always a slew of solutions to these dilemmas and Paige is usually pretty good at saying the perfect thing. But that pout—that pout has only one solution: groveling.

“I’m sorry, baby, don’t look at me like that,” Paige coos, fighting against the hand on her chest to pepper kisses over Azzi’s face.

“You were laughing at something else?” Azzi asks, giving up on fighting Paige to cross her arms over her chest, which is somehow worse. “So you weren’t paying attention.”

“No, I was—ok, I promise I was listening to you, princess—“

“So you were laughing at me.”

“Not like that!” Paige insists, making an attempt at kissing Azzi’s pout away. But Azzi doesn’t reciprocate, just stares at her with an expression that’s somewhere between accusing and hurt. “You’re just cute, baby. I can listen to you and still acknowledge you’re cute.”

“But I’m genuinely annoyed and you’re just sitting here laughing at me.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I promise I was listening to you, angel.” When she goes for another kiss, Azzi kisses her back, which is a good sign. “You’re right, it’s annoying. It’s not funny.”

“It’s not,” Azzi reiterates.

Paige kisses her again. “Not at all.”

“And you agree with me, right?” Azzi asks, pout disappearing and eyebrows shooting up as if to warn her about the consequences of saying the wrong thing here. “You don’t think I need to apologize?”

Paige thinks they both need to apologize. KK for pushing Azzi around, and Azzi for retaliating a little too strongly.

There’s no way in hell she’ll say this.

“‘Course, pretty girl,” Paige says. She nearly sighs with relief when Azzi uncrosses her arms, wrapping them around Paige’s neck to play with her hair.

She smiles approvingly, pulling her down for a sweet kiss. When she pulls away, it’s only enough that their lips are still brushing when she speaks. And then she says, “Okay. Then go out there and stand up for me.”

Emergency Situation Detected.

[chaotic-leaf-enthusiast]

When I was 12, my family sometimes left me home alone with my aunt who was going through chemotherapy treatment. In her third "experimental" round of chemo, she had a pill regimen that she had to follow exactly, and she had to take different pills at different hours.

I was 12. For some godawful reason, on days when my family couldn't get an adult to stay home with her, they kept me home from school and had ME administer her pill regimen to her.

My mother was someone who would spend hours on the internet looking up herbal miracle cures for random ailments to prove that doctors and scientific medicine was a scam. And when her sister got cancer, this was an opportunity for my mom to finally prove that she was right. She bought a "miracle cancer cure" sold by a doctor in canada who lost her medical license "because big pharma wanted to hide the cure". She tried to give it to my aunt. My aunt refused to take it and chose the chemo instead.

My mother talked to me often about how the chemo was actually the thing that was going to kill her, and would frequently break down sobbing about how she had the miracle cure right here, in our medicine cabinet, in a little bottle, but my aunt was choosing death instead because big pharma and the cancer industry had tricked her.

And then, after listening to this, after consoling my mother during the emotional breakdowns, I would go to my grandparent's house, and spend a day administering the chemo pills to my aunt.

I believed my mother. I was 12 and I had grown up hearing about her beliefs in alternative medicine and herbal remedies, and had not yet learned to think critically, just to think *doubtfully.* But I also respected that it was my aunt's choice to take the chemo pills and that I shouldn't try to convince her to do something else, because she was trusting me with administering her pills.

I knew I was her safe person. And I took that very seriously. But I felt awful that I was giving her pills that I had been made to believe were killing her.

She passed away during the third round of chemotherapy. She had found the cancer when it was already stage four, and her odds of survival had been low from the start. But I didn't know what stage four meant. Nobody had really explained to me what was happening. Nobody even ever told me what to do if I fucked up with the pill regimen and gave her the wrong pill or dose at the wrong time. I never did, but I was terrified of what would happen.

It wasn't until I was 22, and had gone to college and learned about medical science and studies and then thought back to things that I remembered from my aunt's cancer treatment, that I understood what had been going on. They found the cancer way too late. It was a very aggressive form of cancer. It had already spread to multiple places when they found it.

For ten years, I felt extreme guilt that I had played a role in my aunt dying because I had administered her pills. What my mother had told me about alternative medicine and herbal remedies caused me to spend ten entire years of my life seeing myself as an accomplice to the murder of someone I loved dearly. I suffered extreme depression and attempted suicide more than once, and felt guilty about grieving for my aunt, guilty about medicine working for me and not her, and guilty about every good thing that happened in my life after she died.

And when I was 22, and realized that it wasn't the chemo that killed her, and that whatever was in that bottle in my mom's cabinet wouldn't have saved her, I looked back on the last ten years I spent thinking of myself as a monster, and felt rage on such a level that I can't even begin to describe it.

Fuck alternative medicine. Fuck herbalism. People peddling herbal remedies and miracle cures and convincing people that it's safer than actual medical science are grossly uninformed and crossing boundaries at best, and predatory in one of the sickest ways possible at worst.

When you say you're anti-CAM what does that mean? Like what does CAM mean in that context? I genuinely haven't seen that acronym before and I'm assuming you aren't anti-camming as in like the form of sex work

Complimentary and Alternative Medicine.

I am capable of turning off my inner annoying atheist, I am incapable of turning off my inner annoying quackwatcher.

I have had real life fights with people I genuinely love about this and I do not regret it. I will absolutely not regret shitting all over someone's $500 herbalist certification.

[illbegottenfaith]

the one where you make theo cry (an ain’t that love inspired drabble)

Theodore Nott was hardly the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He had spent years perfecting his signature air of indifference, the one that captivated most others, what compelled them to make an impression on him. Of course, all that fell away when it came to you.

It started subtly. A sigh escaping your lips after a long day would leave him restless, make his bones a little weary. When you rubbed your temples in frustration, he found himself getting agitated with you - whatever was vexing you so undoubtedly deserved his irritation too. And when you laughed - loud, unabashed - it felt like a breath of fresh air.

Not that he'd admit it to anyone. No, he'd promised himself a long time ago, he wouldn't tell a soul - not his friends, not his family, and certainly not you. Little did he know he had yet to see a moment of yours that would truly unravel him at the seams.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday whilst tracking down Mattheo. He had checked their dorm, the Great Hall, the Quidditch pitch, everywhere - which left solely your dorm. Theo vaguely remembered him mentioning something about fixing one of the pipes in the bathroom, which was really just a ploy to impress one of your roommates more than anything.

But as he passed through the Slytherin common room on his way there, your droopy, teary eyes peering up at him for a split second, Theo swore he felt something inside of him crack open. You weren’t crying, not quite, but you were close. And Merlin, he hated it. Hated how his throat constricted, how his chest tightened, how his own stomach twisted with the bitterness of your misery.

He looked almost comically stricken briefly before straightening his face. "What's wrong?" he asked, voice low.

"It’s nothing." You shook your head, brushing it off with a tight, superficial smile as you moved up to make room for him. "Mattheo’s almost done, he’ll be down in a second."

Still taken aback, Theo accepted the seat beside you 

"It doesn't look like nothing," he prompted. You laughed weakly, dabbing at your eyes.

"Don't worry. It is, really. I'm just feeling a little…hormonal today." Your gaze fell back to the book and almost immediately, your emotions betrayed you once again.

You sniffled as your face screwed up in your effort to choke back your sobs. Theo felt a lump in his throat and an unfamiliar stinging sensation at the corners of his eyes.

“It’s just - “ you forced out, “he’s so small. Look at him, Theo. He’s tiny. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know about taxes. He doesn’t even know about taxes.”

Theo finally caught sight of the page of your book. It had a picture of a baby niffler, no bigger than the size of your thumb - tiny, soft, with big, round, trusting (if only slightly mischievous) eyes.

As you dissolved into more stifled sobs, Theo blinked, caught completely off guard. Then, to everyone’s horror - including his own - his eyes misted over too.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake," Blaise muttered from across the room, watching the scene unfold. "Are you actually crying?"

“It’s fucking tiny.”

Theo scowled at him, aggressively wiping his face. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the sound of your quiet, shuddering breaths, or the way your shoulders trembled under his hands as he pulled you close.

You hiccupped between sobs. "I just love it so much."

Theo swallowed thickly, nodding. "Yeah. Me too." He glanced at the book in your lap again. He hugged you closer, deciding you were right - how dare a Niffler be that tiny, baby or otherwise?

Blaise sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. I’ve seen enough."

Theo’s tears dried as quickly as they came, but the two of you stayed pressed together for a long time after Blaise left, even after your breathing had slowed into something more measured once again. You pressed your cool check against his shoulder, half-dozing.

Unthinkingly, Theo pried your clenched fist open. Surprisingly, you let him thread his fingers through your own. He glanced down at you, at the soft locks of hair curling around your tearstained face. He resisted the urge to press a kiss to the top of your head.

You looked up at him questioning. His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly.

“Just - just let me, alright?”

A playful smile tugged at your lips. “You’re ridiculous, Teddy.” Your smile turned teasing. “Wait till Mattheo hears you cried over a baby niffler.”

Theo took on a wounded look. “So did you.”

As the two of you curled up again, Theo decided that this emotional telepathy wasn’t the worst thing in the world. When you sighed, he sighed. When you laughed, he laughed. When you hurt, he hurt. When you cried over a baby niffler… apparently, he did, too.

He hardly dared to think it, but he did it all the same.

Wasn’t that love?

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

no cause sorry for the rant but you're right it's such a pervasive sentiment not just with music but anything involving Black people and other poc that even around the time Batman: Unburied first came out when I looked at the tag one time I saw some apparently popular riddlebat fanartist's reply to an anon asking them if they'd draw fan art of the podcast's versions of Bruce and Ed and they seriously said they wouldn't ever do that because they never drew poc before and won't ever start to because they "wouldn't want to draw something racist". and it's baffling to me because they literally could just have googled photos of the VAs as reference for this. that's literally not even hard. but instead they just proudly declared they'd never draw poc ever and got support for this from multiple people in their notes...

they did say they'd use Hasan Minhaj's voice clips from the podcast for their own (white, ginger) version of the character though which congrats on making that even worse

no lichrally I've had it up to HERE with my fellow whites using their fear of being perceived as racist as a justification to??? just actually BE racist??? by refusing to engage meaningfully with the writing or art or critical thought of people of color, or even just doing something as harmless as drawing a Black Batman or Indian Riddler. like these clowns would really rather put their entire asses out there and admit they can't learn how to draw a person of color and don't want to and then pretend that's an act of allyship? shut your hell mouth. how the fuck is it that hard for you to draw a Black person without it being racist.

and it all like fundamentally boils down to this deeply held white refusal to engage even a little bit with our own discomfort; this avoidance was identified as a crucial tenant of white supremacy in a very cool workshop I participated in last year. we don't like having to think about things that make us uncomfortable! the idea of, say, having to potentially learn a few new skills to draw a wider variety of people or of potentially receiving negative feedback, maybe even being accused of being unintentionally racist—that makes a lot of us curl up in a miserable little ball and preemptively disengage, which is why you have people coming up with these elaborate hoops justify their choices. a lot of us might believe racism is wrong but still be too afraid of confronting or being confronted with their own biases to actually push our boundaries re: engaging with things outside our white experiences, so then because we're Definitely Not Racist we have to come up with justifications for why our refusal to engage is actually woke rather than just prioritizing our own white fragility.

anyway @ all my fellow white people get a grip and learn to be okay with the possibility of being told you fucked up.

[nomie-11]

Lover Girl

masterlist!

synopsis: vi was a loser, a lover girl, and head over heels for you

pairings: vi x reader (no use of y/n)

Vi was a loser. 

She was always reminded of her pitiful stance as a random masc lesbian on campus when she passed by you on her way to her afternoon lab. She would watch you walk by, curls bouncing, heeled boots clicking against the pavement as you laughed along to whatever the gorgeous Kiramman girl on your side was saying. 

Vi didn’t stand a chance, not against the Kiramman and not against every other gay within a 50 kilometer radius of you that so desperately wanted to get between your beautifully toned thighs. 

But Vi had a plan. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was a plan nonetheless. Step one: casually run into you at the campus coffee shop. Step two: say something cool. Step three: make you fall madly in love with her, or at the very least, get you to remember her face. 

Simple, right?

Wrong. 

Because the moment Vi stepped into the coffee shop and spotted you at the counter—hair tossed over your shoulder, Caitlyn leaning in to say something that made you grin—her brain short-circuited. her heart pounded like she’d just run sprints, and suddenly, she forgot how to be a normal, functioning human being. 

Ellie, ever the devil on her shoulder, nudged her forward. “Go on, lover girl. Say something smooth.” 

Vi swallowed hard, adjusted her jacket, and sauntered up beside you, trying her best to look effortlessly cool. Instead, she tripped over absolutely nothing and lurched forward, her group on her coffee slipping. Time slowed as the cup tilted, then tumbled, and in an instant—

SPLASH. 

A flood of piping hot coffee cascaded down the front of your pristine white shirt. 

You gasped, eyes wide as the liquid soaked into the fabric, turning it completely see-through. Vi’s own traitorous eyes followed the path of destruction, trailing powder, until—

Oh. Oh no. 

Your bra, lacy and delicate, clung to your skin in a way that should be illegal. 

Vi’s brain short-circuited. Every neuron in her dumb, gay little head misfired at once. She was looking—she shouldn’t be looking—but she was looking, and oh god, she had to stop before you noticed—

“Vi!” Ellie hissed under her breath, jabbing an elbow into her ribs. 

Vi snapped out of it so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. 

“Shit! Shit, I—oh, fuck—I am so sorry!” Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, unsure whether to help, to flee, or to simply melt into the crack in between the ratty coffee shop tiles and hoped you forgot about her. 

Your lips parted, eyes flicking down to assess the damage. “Well,” you said, voice amused despite the mess, “that’s one way to see my tits.” 

Vi wanted to die. Just perish right there in the middle of the coffee shop floor. 

Instead, she sprang into action. “Here—uh—take my jacket!” She shrugged off the worn leather in record time and practically threw it around your shoulders before anyone else could get an eyeful. “Just—yeah, cover up—uh, not that you have to! I mean, you look great—not like I was looking! Or, like, not in a creepy way—oh my god, I need to shut up—”

You laughed, warm and bright, as you pulled the jacket tighter around yourself. “Relax, Vi. It’s just coffee.” 

Vi, who had gone stiff as a board at hearing you say her name, blinked. “You know my name?” 

“You sit behind me in human physiology,” you said, smiling. “And you’re kind of hard to miss.” 

Vi’s brain fully melted. She really, really thought she would just die. 

Ellie snorted, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Congrats, lover girl. You’re unforgettable now.”

Vi was malfunctioning. 

It had been a full five minutes since she’d doused you in coffee and humiliated herself in front of the entire campus, and yet—somehow—you were still talking to her. 

She didn’t know how or why. Maybe the universe had finally decided to cut her some slack. Maybe she’d actually died of embarrassment, and what is was the afterlife. Whatever the case, she wasn’t about to question it. 

“So,” you said, adjusting Vi’s jacket around your shoulders. It was comically broad on you, the sleeves dangling past your hands, the scent of worn leather and something undeniably her wrapping around you like a hug. “I think this means you owe me a coffee.” 

Vi blinked. “I—yeah! Yeah, totally. Whatever you want.” 

You smiled. “Cool. I’ll take a caramel macchiato. Medium.” 

Vi scrambled to order, fumbling with her wallet as Ellie watched in barely concealed amusement. When the barista called your name, you plucked the cup from the counter and took a slow, deliberate sip, eyes locked on Vi the entire time. 

“Thanks, Vi,” you said, licking a bit of coffee foam from your lip. 

Vi’s soul left her body. 

“Y-yeah, no problem,” she stammered, gripping the edge of the counter to keep herself from toppling over. “Sorry again about, y’know, ruining your shirt and, uh, your day—”

“You didn’t ruin my day,” you cut in smoothly, taking another sip of your drink. “Just my shirt. And honestly? If this is your way of flirting, keep it up. I like it.”

Vi forgot how to breathe. Ellie choked on her own drink. 

“You should do it again sometime,” you added, winking before turning toward the door. 

Vi watched you leave, slipping your arm into Caitlyn’s as you giggled, the coffee shop suddenly feeling a lot warmer. 

Ellie whistled. “Holy shit, lover girl. You might actually have a shot.”

Vi, still reeling, stared at her with wide eyes. “I need to lie down.”

————————

Vi didn’t expect to see you again so soon, but campus had a funny way of throwing her into awkward situations. 

The next morning, she was rushing across the quad, still half-asleep, when she heard someone calling her name. 

“Vi!”

She skidded to a stop, heart already hammering. She turned to find you walking toward her, wearing her jacket. 

Her poor, gay heart couldn’t handle it. 

“Oh, hey,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Uh, how’s your shirt situation?”

You laughed. “Better. But I figured I’d keep this for a bit longer. Hope you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Vi said, as if the thought of you wearing her clothes wasn’t currently rewriting her entire brain chemistry. “Nope. Not at all. Keep it forever, if you want.”

You raised a brow. “Forever, huh? You sure about that?”

Vi’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, before she managed, “I mean—you look good in it, so—yeah?”

Your lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. 

“Good,” you said, stepping a little closer. “Because I was thinking… if you wanted your jacket back, you might have to take me out to dinner first.”

Vi stared. You smiled. Ellie, watching from Vi and her dorm window, fist-pumped the air. 

“I—uh—” Vi cleared her throat. “Dinner. Yeah. I can do that. Totally. Absolutely. When—uh—when were you thinking?”

You pretended to think, tilting your head. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Vi repeated, still buffering. “Yep. Cool. Great. I’ll—uh—I’ll text you?”

“Looking forward to it, lover girl,” you teased, before turning on your heel and strolling away, Vi’s jacket still draped over your shoulders. 

Vi stood there for a solid minute, staring at where you’d been. 

Then she pulled out her phone and texted Ellie:

Vi: I think I just agreed to a date???

Ellie: YOU WHAT!!!!

——————————

Vi was sweating. 

Which was ridiculous, because it was cold outside, and she was currently standing in front of your dorm, hands stuffed in her pockets, trying not to hyperventilate. 

She’d spent way too long getting ready—changing shirts three times, debating whether her other leather jacket was too much (Ellie convinced her it was ‘peak masc lesbian energy,’ and Dina agreed so she must have been right), and trying not to puke from nerves. 

And now, she was here. About to take you on a date. 

You swung the door open before she could knock. “Vi!”

Oh. Oh. 

You were in a black dress, snug in all the right places, and Vi swore she momentarily lost all motor function. 

“You good?” You asked, smirking. 

“Yeah,” Vi said, voice cracking like a teenage boy. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. Totally. You look—uh—wow.”  

You laughed, locking your dorm behind you. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Vi absolutely wasn’t blushing. Definitely not. “I’m not nervous.”

“Mhm,” you said, linking your arm through hers as you started down the hallway. “So, where are you taking me, lover girl?”

————————

Vi had racked her brain for the perfect place and eventually settled on a nice, cozy little restaurant near campus. It wasn’t fancy, but it was real—warm lighting, a killer burger menu, and a jukebox playing old rock songs in the corner. 

You slid into the booth across from her, propping your chin on your hand as you watched her. 

“So, Vi,” You said, eyes twinkling. “You gonna tell me why it took spilling coffee on me to finally make a move?”

Vi groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we not talk about my tragic lack of game?”

You grinned. “I think it’s cute.”

“You think everything is cute.”

“Not everything,” you teased, leaning forward. “Just you.”

Vi choked on her water. 

The rest of the date was… perfect. 

You talked, you laughed, you stole a few of her fries like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hi was completely gone for you, and by the time you both stepped outside into the crisp night air, she was wondering how the hell she’d gotten so lucky. 

You walked side by side, the streetlights casting a soft glow around you. 

“This was fun,” you said, tugging Vi’s jacket around you a little tighter. 

“Yeah,” Vi agreed, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I mean, aside from me embarrassing myself every five seconds.”

You stopped walking, turning to face her. “You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

Vi huffed. “I literally poured coffee on you, made an idiot out of myself, and nearly passed out when I saw you in that dress.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, so you liked the dress?”

Vi blinked. “Uh—yes? Obviously? Have you seen yourself?”

You stepped closer. “I have,” you said, voice soft. “But I like seeing myself through your eyes.”

Vi forgot how to breathe. 

Then, before she could process what was happening, you reached to her, gently tugging her up by the collar of her jacket—

And kissed her. 

It was soft at first, hesitant, like you were waiting for her to freak out—but Vi wasn’t that much of a loser. 

She kissed you back. Harder. 

Her hands found your waist, pulling you in, and you sighed into her mouth like you’d been waiting for this just as much as she had. 

When you finally pulled away, Vi was dazed. 

You smiled, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Took you long enough, lover girl.” 

Vi let out a breathless laugh. “With the wait?”

You grinned. “Definitely.”

And then you kissed her again, just because you could. 

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[kwondotcom]

hana— in our first ever conversation, i divulged to you that i've thought of elevatory at least once a week since i first read it. the reason why it took me a bit of time to do a proper rb is because i had annotated it on my second read, needed to take a min to breathe, and ended up only revisiting it now while clearing drafts/my tbr. so, here it is now on read #3!!! THIS WILL NOT BE THE LAST READ (THREAT)

tl;dr one of my favorite pieces of soonyoung writing. the premise in itself is probably the most unique i've seen in a long time, and it just drives me so insane to see such a well-done exes plot. spoilers under the cut. <3

WHAT A KILLER FIRST LINE. an actual art form, really, to have u hook line and sinker in the first sentence!

knew as early as this part that i'd be in for a wild ride. it's very telling of a post-break up sentiment, and it's a stellar set up for the MC's mindset.

there's a lot to love here. the touch of "nine now, but who's counting", the call back of "God hates you" and just. soonyoung's trying to make the most of it. oomf. because of course kwon soony would jump at this opportunity, would try to make small talk w/someone he's been no contact with. it's just his style, and it leads in well to the rest of the story. the next paragraph is actual pure gold: "- sad puppy, you've nicknamed it," following the description of soony as an open book. vicious and accurate read. goes really well with the descriptiveness of this:

(aha. i'm on to you, MC. you can say what you want, but at the end of the day, you can still read him. you still know him.)

i'm more than a little obsessed at a tactless soony + jeonghan, of course, inadvertently being the one at the crime scene.

the first part is already a punch in the gut in itself— the acknowledgement of their differences, serving as a bit of a gravity that explains how the two have acted so far. think the wrong side of magnets clinking against e/o lol. but what amazes me is how hana manages to manifest is a couple of sentences later. soony who winces, who is still obviously pained by his ala-taylor swift the moment i knew moment (i don't even want to think too much of the forgotten birthday scene or i will cry) vs. mc who's 'not sure why [you're] trying to reassure him'.

i said i don't want of the birthday flashback, but it must be said. this fucking line? shot to the chest and i'm in love with the shooter (hana). sighs.

[CAR CRASH] [GLASS SHATTERING] [EXPLOSION] “OH MY GOD” [BABY CRYING] “WAAAHH WAHH” [YELLING] “HELP MEE” [POLICE SIRENS] WEE WOO WEE WOEOO [YELLING] [HELICOPTERS] ‘WE’RE REPORTING LIVE-‘ [EXPLOSION] ‘MY LEG… MY LEG!!’ [BABY CRYING] “AHFUCKK SOMEONE HELP US” [REPORTER REPORTING] oh, this got got me. something about the intimacy of a name, so deceptively simple, and soony feeling the weight of the moment :") man.

this is my favorite flashback scene (and the eventual conclusion 'tried so hard/neither of you tried hard enough) for a lot of reasons. on one hand, there's something my friends and i call the burden of knowledge, which is something i feel jeonghan is vouchsafed in this scene. he's the one who hears out why MC wants to break up with soony, who talks her through it. "little things add up." my god, what a simple truth. part of why i adore elevatory so much— aside from being a study of form, an entire story told in a one-act that no one else besides hana could pull off— is because of the way it aches. it doesn't cut, like some stories might. it doesn't scar. it's just... a dull, familiar sort of throb. like a phantom pain. i think that's the best way to put it. cuts scab over. scars heal. but aches are forever, and this is exactly what that fic does. some old forgotten breakup, some bitterness at the circumstances, some truths packaged in a kwon soonyoung fanfic that remind you right, my pain of that-time-we-don't-talk-about is somewhat universal. it's comforting, in the same way that it's damning, to realize that there are people who know y/our pain that same way. to read it back, though— to have it glaring up at you— is just. a one-of-a-kind experience.

the lead-in to the breakup is devastating, because it really is that, sometimes. you realize love in the tender mundane, which means you can also loss love on a random weekday. "... after realising you had no idea where he kept his cereal bowls" is just an absolute gut-punch. like, ah. this is a life we're supposed to be sharing, a small fact i would know if it weren't for all the distance and time apart (what kind of girlfriend doesn't know where their boyfriend keeps their cereal bowls?!) and it just. little things, as jeonghan had said. also: something so cruel in the breakup starting, and consisting, of MC just saying soonyoung. this, after present-day soony is jolted when MC says his name? yeah. abso-fucking-lutely brutal, man.

won't even try to act like i can be coherent about this when i started crying actual tears the first time i read this passage. even now, my eyes are skipping over the words in an attempt to guard my heart against that impending pain. like, hey, hana. what the fuck! reminds me of a poem, which i'm attaching here. "but i remember our kindness that day, / when it longer mattered."

i can tell you exactly when i first read this (second week of january -ish) and when i read it a second time (earlier this month; the aborted annotation attempt), and i just wish you could've seen the look on my fucking face/the gasp i gusped when it ended with this. i rate about it a lot already in this little post, but it bears repeating: pulling off a one-act/one-setting piece is no easy feat, and you do it with such finesse. the un-chronological order of the flashbacks, the glimpses of their present selves and how they've changed/how they're still like their past versions, and this ending. absolutely bowls me over. hana, you have talent that bursts at the seams. elevatory is living, breathing proof.

You were once deeply and irrevocably in love with Kwon Soonyoung, and it’s incredibly hard to avoid that fact when he works literally two offices down from you. It’s even harder to avoid when you’re stuck in a broken elevator with him for hours, and he seems determined to dissect everything that went wrong three years ago.

⇢ pairing: kwon soonyoung x f!reader

⇢ genre: angst, fluff, exes!au, lawyer!au

⇢ wc: 5.6k

⇢ warnings: minor alcohol consumption, lots of flashbacks

⇢ a/n: early happy new year!! this is my gift to u all <3 thank u to @haologram for hosting this collab and for just being alive. and thank you SOO much to ally @lovetaroandtaemin and em @gyuswhore for beta'ing i appreciate u both endlessly 💗

as part of the don’t hate, litigate! collab hosted by the wonderful @haologram

SOMETIMES IT TRULY feels like God, or the stars in your skies, or whatever the hell is controlling your fate down on this measly earth, hates you.

Sometimes it truly feels like this indefinite being is determined to deal you the worst set of cards, and this – this trumps all. Being stuck in an elevator with your ex-boyfriend sounds like the beginning of a shitty romcom, except it’s not. It’s your life, and it’s been your life for the past eight minutes, since the metal box you stepped in ground to a creaky, noisy halt halfway between the sixth and seventh floor. 

And it takes eight minutes before Soonyoung sighs resignedly. “Are you just going to ignore me forever?” 

Forever, you think, is your least favourite word. There were a lot of things you thought you’d have forever, and one of them is standing right next to you.

You swallow thickly. Your reply comes measured and clipped. “For as long as possible.”

When he speaks next, you can hear the attempt at a forced smile in his tone. “Well, you kinda just failed.”

You stay silent. If anyone had told you five years ago that Kwon Soonyoung would be begging to talk to you and you’d be ignoring him, you would have called them crazy; and yet, here you are. Ignoring him like your sanity depends on it, because actually, it does. So for the past eight minutes – nine now, but who’s counting? – you’ve barely spoken a word. You’re both stuck; the recovery team can’t make it for two hours at least; and God hates you, basically.

Soonyoung’s trying to make the most of it, and you’re not letting him.

He says your name, ever so softly. “Really, though. How – how have you been?”

It’s weird, going from years of no contact to working together. It’s been a year since Soonyoung joined your company, but it hasn’t become any easier. Not when he’s such an open book, so fucking easy for you to read. Every time you cross paths, he gets this look in his eyes – sad puppy, you’ve nicknamed it. Now is no different.

“I’ve been okay,” you say finally, stiltedly. You’ve never been able to resist that face, and you’re pretty sure he knows it too. “What about you?”

The silence is painful, but the way he says fine stings a little bit more. You know when he’s lying, and he never used to do that to you.

“So…” He shifts his weight awkwardly, huffing out an uncomfortable laugh as he gazes intently at his shoes. “This is weird, right?”

You match him with an equally uncomfortable smile. “The weirdest.”

“Our longest conversation after forever,” he says. “But I wasn’t expecting it to go like this.”

You cock your head to the side, fixing him with a questioning gaze. All hopes of ignoring him are sailing out the hypothetical window. “How were you expecting it to go?”

Soonyoung looks up at you with one of those embarrassed, endearing smiles. “Better.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then – “You know, Jeonghan calls you the one that got away.” 

He’s always had a habit of dropping things like that on you; things that leave you a little winded.

“That makes it sound like I escaped,” you say, with an ease you don’t feel.

Clearly, Soonyoung doesn’t feel it either — he exhales heavily. “Maybe you did. Escape, I mean.”

You snap your head towards him, eyes almost owlish in your surprise; “You’re not serious.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue haphazardly, “Soonyoung, that’s not — there wasn’t anything to escape from.” 

Your ex-boyfriend looks miserable. Avoids eye contact, staring fixedly at his shoes with a dejected expression he can’t properly disguise; even throughout the three years of your relationship, you rarely saw him like this. He looks…

Heartbroken, your mind suggests.

“I’m serious,” you insist again, pushing the thought out of your mind. “You weren’t a bad boyfriend, Soonyoung.”

He snorts then. “Okay, we both know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” 

“If we had, like, a counter of who fucked up however many times, I would leave you in the dust.”

You don’t know how to tell him this might even be half of it. This weird pedestal he puts you on – it’s not even guilt-tripping. You’ve seen that, but never from him; Soonyoung just truly, sincerely feels bad. Whenever you look back on your relationship, which is more often than you’d care to admit, it’s plain as day. He truly, sincerely feels that he has never deserved you. Like you’re something out of this world, out of his world. 

“Wow.” Soonyoung huffs out the one word, and it’s half a laugh, half admiration. “You are so out of my league.”

“Stop,” you whine, pushing his shoulder lightly. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”

“Well, not everyone gets to date the prettiest girl in law school,” he retorts quickly, lifting his brows. “Not sure why I of all people get to, but thank you.”

“Stop it,” you repeat, rolling your eyes and fixing the tie he’s wearing. ���You’re gorgeous and you know it. You should know it, at least.”

“Not just that!” he protests quickly. “I just mean… you’re so smart. And good. And kind, and funny, and — ”

“Ah, yes! Of course, Kwon Soonyoung, known famously for being mean and horrible and extremely unfunny,” you say sarcastically, before tugging his tie and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I choose my league, and you’re the only one in it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he murmurs, slightly breathless.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me.”

There were a lot of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung. You’d started off wonderful: both of you bright, flaming, drawn to each other like magnets. You managed the stresses of law school, graduated together, and lined up jobs – jobs that were miles and miles from each other.`

There were lots of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung, but if you had to pick one, it would be long distance.

“When did we stop trying?”

The question makes you snort. “What, you want a date and a time?”

Soonyoung smiles ruefully, but there’s nothing happy about it. It’s more of a painful grimace. That’s always been the way with you both: you deflect, he feels. He doesn’t hide the way you do, not from anyone. And for a few years, he was the only one who you didn’t hide from. 

Maybe that’s what has you opening your mouth again. “I could probably give you one. A date, I mean.”

Soonyoung hugs his knees to his chest, eyes searching your face. You can read him so well it physically makes you ache. The hint of uncertainty in his eyes, the twitching of his fingers – he’s nervous. He’s torn between wanting to know what you have to say and the strong sneaking premonition that it might hurt. “Go on,” he says finally, just as you knew he would. 

Honestly, you don’t have an exact date. Things fell apart slowly, and then all at once. A toppling tower – leaning, leaning, leaning, until it crashed. 

“There were probably a few things,” you say, softly. “My birthday, for a start.”

He winces reflexively. “That…” he begins, and then breathes out, shutting his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for that.”

“I mean, in the end, it wasn’t that big of a deal.” You’re not sure why you’re trying to reassure him, even if it's true. You forgave him almost immediately.

“Shit.” 

Soonyoung’s first eloquent word when he walks into the apartment only means you become sure of what you already suspected. He takes in the half-eaten cake on the table, candles blown out and tossed to the side, the scraps of wrapping paper littering the floor, the cards; you take in his face. And you know, as quick and as simple as that – he forgot. 

Some small part of you had been holding a sneaking hope that maybe this was just an elaborate attempt at a surprise. You’d told him once, months and months ago, that you didn’t think ignoring people on their birthday to surprise them later was a very nice thing to do. But you’d rather he forgot that than your entire birthday.

His eyes meet yours, both of you frozen to your places. Him at the doorway, you at the table. The distance between you isn’t more than a few metres, but suddenly it feels like an engulfing abyss. Still, even from the other side, you can feel the guilt pouring out of him. 

“Shit,” he says again, before rushing his words out. “Shit, baby, I’m so sorry.”

You haven’t cried all day. You haven’t let yourself, but this has your eyes brimming over before you can control it.

“I’m going to bed,” you say finally, hugging yourself tightly, making yourself smaller. The apartment is warm, but you suddenly feel freezing. And despite your best efforts, there’s a waver in your voice, verging on a crack. “I’m tired.” 

You glance over the remains of your birthday party, one that you plastered a fake, painful smile on the whole way through, and then you turn to leave. 

“Baby, wait,” he implores quickly, and takes a step towards you — you mirror it immediately with a step back, and it makes him pause, his expression falling even further. “Baby.”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.” Your voice is obviously shaking now. “Not today. Maybe — maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe tomorrow you’ll be able to hear his excuses, his promises, but today, you’re allowed to be upset. You’ll let yourself have today, at the very least.

He’d driven hours to see you that day, but he’d still forgotten why he was there. You hadn’t really celebrated your birthday before you met him. Soonyoung was the one who made it a big deal, back when you first started dating, and even now, there’s a sharp pang in your chest when you remember how hurt you were that day.

“You made up for it tenfold,” you remind him now, because it’s true. He made the rest of the week practically a utopia, once you banned him from apologising. And he’d been so busy at work, so incredibly tired the whole month before, and you could understand. Both that he upset you, and that it was an innocent mistake. And you’ve never seen more sincere apologies than those that came from Soonyoung.

He looks grim, shakes his head, but doesn’t say any more. Probably because you’ve had this conversation a few times already, both of you too stubborn to give in. 

“Keep going,” he says, then, looking at you head on. “What else?”

All of a sudden, you don’t want to talk about what else. All of a sudden, you’re annoyed with him, his stupid face, this stupid elevator. “Do we have to do this?” Your voice has switched from somewhat reassuring to harsh – for want of a better word, angry. It makes his brown eyes a little round with surprise, his mouth parting a little.

“What?”

“What else and what if have been on my mind for three years, Soonyoung,” you say acidly. “Forgive me if I don’t really want to talk about it to your face.”

Again, his mouth opens a little bit, stays open as he tries to form words. Until he gives up, seals his lips and nods. “Alright. Okay. That’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine!” you cry out, only more angry that he won’t argue back. You’re lawyers, it’s what you do. And just to be petty, you add — “Besides, I bet your girlfriend wouldn’t be happy about this anyway.”

Finally, his passive poker face drops, and he looks a little confused. “My what?”

Immediately, you regret opening your mouth, but it’s too late to back down. “Your girlfriend. You know, that girl from accounting.”

“The girl fr— You mean Rachel?” Soonyoung gapes at you, and something in you bridles, until he continues. “Mrs Choi, who's married to her wife and adopting a kid next year?”

Well, now you feel stupid as fuck.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he continues, and if you weren’t afraid to look at him right now, you’d swear he was hiding a smirk.

“Whatever. I don’t care. Why are we even talking about this?” you snap, irritated and embarrassed.

He still sounds smug. “You brought it up.”

“You sit with her every lunch hour,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck. “I just assumed.”

“Well, there’s nothing there. So don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried! I don’t care who you date, Soonyoung!”

He looks a little taken aback, blinking once or twice, cockiness gone without a trace. “Wow,” he says, finally. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in his voice. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name since — ”

He cuts himself off, but you complete the sentence in your head — three years ago. Three years since you packed up and walked out of his life. It feels like a decade ago; it feels like last week. You’d been so sure that you wouldn’t see his face again after that, that it was a decided end of a full four years of your life. Until last year, when he’d waltzed straight back into your life, this time at your workplace.

“This is the new hire.” Your boss is speaking, but you’re still finishing up the last sentence on the document you’re working on, and you listen absently as he fires a couple instructions — “Jeon, you’ll show him around. Filing system, get him logged on, the works.”

You look up then, to cast Wonwoo a knowing smile, because he always gets lumped with showing around the newbies, but halfway to making eye contact with your friend, you catch the familiar tilt of a jaw, the soft lines of a nose you know so well.

You’ve seen Soonyoung in a hundred people since you left him. You’re always looking over your shoulder at the bus stop, at the grocery store, at the library, finding a tiny piece of him in everyone and everything, a tiny piece that lodges itself tight and sharp into your throat until you take a second look, until you see unfamiliar eyes or too dark hair or shorter legs. Until you find something to make you swallow, exhale, and keep walking.

Now, your second look doesn’t yield anything unfamiliar. Except maybe his hair, gone from blonde to black, but everything else — everything else. It’s him, and he looks just as shocked to see you as you are to see him. There’s a heavy moment that seems only heavy to the two of you, everyone else still talking, the boss still giving instructions, but you and Soonyoung are looking at each other, dumbfounded, and all you can think about is the distinct taste of bile in your throat and the tie he’s wearing is the one you got him for his birthday.

Your initial plan is to avoid him. He foils that plan within two hours, cornering you in the break room, whispering urgently, “I had no idea you worked here, I swear I’m not, like, following you or – ”

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind, and you just pin him with a blank stare. 

“I could quit.”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish the sentence. “I’m not so butthurt that I can’t be a professional.”

“Right,” Soonyoung nods, breathing out a little. His lips are chapped. He never used to wear lip balm, just used to borrow yours. You hate yourself a little for remembering that.

The memory almost makes your lips twist with an sardonic smile. “I was so pissed when you showed up here.”

You can see his half smile, rueful and charming, through your peripheral vision. “I felt so bad about it, you know. But you just seemed annoyed when I saw you in the break room, so I figured you weren’t… mad or upset or anything.”

“I went straight from the break room to cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes,” you admit truthfully. “I had to tell Wonwoo I had curry for breakfast.”

“You cried?”

You scowl. “I’m not saying it to be pitied, Soonyoung. I’m just saying, I’m not, like, some heartless jerk with no feelings. Of course I was upset.”

“I know that,” he says quickly, vehemently. “Of course I know that.” He hesitates, and then continues, words practically inching out of him. “It’s not really my place to ask, but… you and Wonwoo… are you guys…?”

“You’re right,” you say, and press your cheek onto your knees to fix him with your eyes. “It’s not your business. But that’d be hypocritical of me, so… no. No, we’re just friends. I’m friends with his girlfriend too, Cam, she works at the plant shop down the road.”

Soonyoung tilts his head back, lets out one of those breathy laughs that aren’t really laughs. “It’s so weird that you have new friends now.”

“Thanks,” you say, dripping with sarcasm.

“Not like that! I just mean I’m so used to – like, it used to be our friends, you know what I mean?”

“Not since three years ago,” you say with false lightness, because when you lost Soonyoung, you lost the friends he brought you too. You catch the glint of pity in his eyes again, and scoff. “It’s not a big deal. They were your friends first.”

Frowning, he speaks again. “First doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter to them either. Seungkwan said you were the one who stopped answering their calls.”

It’s true, and the feeling still burns a little, because Seungkwan and Jeonghan had called so many times. Even Vernon called a couple times, and you weren’t even that close to him, but Soonyoung has always attracted good people. Like calls to like. Maybe that’s why you ended up leaving.

“I was trying to make it easier,” you say bluntly., “for them to choose you.”

Your ex-boyfriend clicks his tongue, rakes a hand through his dark hair. “It’s not about sides, ___, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, it felt like it at the time, alright?” Your words come out louder than you mean them to, and you pause, trying to quell your defensiveness. 

Soonyoung raises his hands in half-hearted surrender. “Alright. Alright.”

Something in your stomach feels acidic. Leaning your head back against the cool wall of the elevator, you manage to meet his eyes apologetically. “How – how are they, though? Seungkwan and everyone?”

Graciously, he ignores your quick show of temper. “They’re good. Seungkwan’s working freelance photography now. Jeonghan still hates his job, but keeps getting promoted anyway.”

Jeonghan. You told him you thought you were going to break up before you even told Soonyoung. You wonder if he remembers it, because that night is seared into your memory – New Year’s Eve, three years ago.

You’re much drunker than you ever intended to be when you finally find a place to sit in the cramped apartment, waved over by a sympathetic looking Jeonghan. He pats your head affectionately as you groan. 

“Feeling alright?”

“No,” you say elaborately.

Jeonghan never pries, which is probably what makes people tell him everything. He only raises his eyebrows at you, a hint of scepticism toying with his smile.

You look away, eyes drawn immediately to your boyfriend, laughing in the middle of the kitchen. Throwing his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, looking so fucking happy; when you see him like this, your heart always feels so incredibly warm and so incredibly full. 

Except today, there’s something else intertwining it, something similar to dread, and it causes the faint smile on your face to fade a little.

Jeonghan sees it, of course, and when you look back at him, his eyebrows only raise higher. 

You sink further into that horrible, looming feeling. “Jeonghan.”

“___.”

“I think I’m going to break up with him this year.”

If you didn’t know Jeonghan as well as you do, you’d think the information hadn’t affected him at all; his features remain completely impassive, but you catch the flash of surprise in his eyes. He stays quiet for a long time, the silence between you filled with thumping bass and indistinct conversation, until finally, he asks the only question there is to ask. “Why?”

It’s ridiculous, how one word can bring you to the verge of tears. But that one word holds so much weight – why would you break up with him? Why would you, when you’ve pictured a future with him a thousand times over? 

Why would you leave the best thing that ever happened to you?

You blink back the tears, and Jeonghan waits.

His voice is soft, but you still hear him under the din of the party. “Is this about your birthday?”

You shake your head quickly. “No.” You stop. “Maybe. It’s – there’s just – little stupid things.”

“Little things add up,” Jeonghan says gently. You hate how he’s already understanding.

“Sometimes – ” You swallow thickly. “Sometimes I just feel so far away from him.”

You don’t have to explain that you don’t mean physically. Because that’s part of it, but it’s not all of it, but without you saying that, Jeonghan knows. You barely notice when he takes your plastic red cup from your hands, setting it on the table next to him. “And I know he loves me, and he’d never hurt me on purpose, and – he’s been so good to me, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan only hums, waits for you to continue. And you do, the alcohol only pushing more words out of your mouth. “The distance,” you say, “is killing us.” You rub furiously at your eyes. “No matter how hard we try, Jeonghan, it’s not working, and I feel like – I’m the only one who can see that. He’s ignoring it, but we can’t keep going like this.”

Jeonghan hesitates for a second, looking torn, more torn than you’ve ever seen him look. “Do you still love him?”

Tears blur your vision again, but don’t quite escape this time. “I don’t know how to stop.”

When you kiss Soonyoung after the countdown, your cheeks are wet.

“Long distance.”

“What?”

“You asked what else,” you say, picking at your nails. “I think it was the distance. I think that’s what – you know. Broke us up.”

Soonyoung has that look in his eyes, the one where he wants to argue but knows he’s going to lose, knows that you’re right. He breathes out, licks his lips and tries to speak. “We tried so hard.”

It’s not even a counter-argument. You agree with him, even. The two of you were brilliant at long distance, until you weren’t. Hours-long video calls, surprise weekend visits, staying over for the holidays, until it all started collapsing. Weekly movie nights kept getting postponed. Visits had to decrease in number. You were missing each other’s calls – if one of you wasn’t working late, the other always was. It was like the entire universe was working against you both, and suddenly, you felt like a burden rather than a lover, and Soonyoung would probably say the same. It’s hard not to feel that way, when you’re celebrating your anniversary over FaceTime and both of you keep dozing off while the other talks.

In a way, Soonyoung is right: you both tried so hard. In a way, he’s so wrong: neither of you tried hard enough.

Towards the end of it all, you were too tired to fight. Both of you were. The breakup was a quiet affair, mostly. You brought it up first, standing in the kitchen of Soonyoung’s apartment after realising you had no idea where he kept his cereal bowls.

“Soonyoung?”

“Babe, I told you, it’s the third cupboard from the left,” he calls, but he’s rounding the corner to his kitchen anyway. He stops in his tracks when he sees your face, smile fading, and for a second, time freezes.

“Soonyoung,” you say again, quieter.

And he knows. “Don’t,” he says, faintly, but there’s no weight behind it, because he knows.

Tears are already brimming your eyes, and you’re wrapping your arms around yourself, shaking your head. “I can’t,” you say, and you’re not sure what you mean. I can’t end it. I can’t keep going.

The picture before him is enough for Soonyoung, and any defence, any fight he still had in him (because he’s always been the more tenacious) drains. He gives in, same as you. 

“Okay,” he says, in a voice that’ll haunt you for years to come, a clashing harmony of gentle and damning. “Okay.”

You try to formulate words. You fail. All that you can say is “Soonyoung.” before you trail off. 

You don’t finish. He gives you a tired, forced smile, says something about, “We had a good run, didn’t we?”, but you’re too busy trying to wrench the tears back into your eyes to focus properly. Your efforts are in vain, of course, tears slipping down your cheeks hot and heavy, no matter how much you try to stop.

“I’m sorry,” you say tearfully, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry.”

After that, he only helps you load your bags into your car and says thank you when you give him the house keys. He does everything so quietly, so methodically, so defeatedly. It’s like he’s just lost a war he’s been fighting for far too long.

It turns out that in the end, four years can be reduced down to this: two cardboard boxes, three bin bags, and two broken hearts.

It’s your fault, in technical terms. You finished this. You’re the one who said the words, or almost said them, the one who spelled out what was so obviously ignored. More than once, because you’d tried this before, six months ago. Soonyoung was the one who fought back. He’d said no, of course, that first time. He’d said no with tears in his eyes, like it was a surprise to him, like he couldn’t see it the way you saw it — that you were on two very different paths. 

Soonyoung didn’t believe in following diverging paths, he believed in forcing yourself straight ahead hand-in-hand, come hell or high water. He believed in it, until he didn’t, and then he let you go.

When it’s time for you to leave, he accepts the hug you can’t help but fling on him just before you step in the car. Both of your arms around each other, fitting into place like you have a hundred times before, but so much tighter and so much briefer this time. Soonyoung clings to you like he’s never going to see you again, because he isn’t. You cling to him like this is the last time you’ll ever hug him, because it is.

And then both of you are pulling away, laughing awkwardly at the wet patch you’ve left on his shirt, and then you’re getting in your car and he’s waving you off and it’s over, just like that.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” There’s an acerbic quality to Soonyoung’s laugh as he continues. “We broke up because of distance, and here we fucking are.”

There’s a metre and a half between you two.

“Maybe it was a dumb reason,” you say. Voicing the thought that’s tormented you since the day you drove away. Because maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was a temporary rough patch, and if you’d stayed, if you’d fought a little more and a little longer, you’d still have Soonyoung.

But you didn’t, and you don’t.

There’s a heavy expression on Soonyoung’s face, a strange mix of anger and confusion and guilt. “Maybe,” he says, at last. There’s the vaguest trace of bitterness, the little tiny sting that reminds you again that you’re the one who called it quits. 

“It felt like the weight of the world at the time,” you say ashamedly, squeezing your eyes shut for a second.

Soonyoung takes the chance and scoots closer to you, sitting against the wall with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. (How easy it would be to just rest your head there, as you’ve done a thousand times before.) “It can’t have been easy,” he says, patting your hand with his own. Warm and familiar in its unfamiliarity, which is when you realise you’ve misread him, for once – he’s not bitter. He’s empathetic.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Soonyoung continues softly, rubbing his eyes, “but God, I wish you’d just talked to me. Actually — I wish we’d talked to each other.”

“Yes, well,” you say dryly, wondering if he’s going to catch your reference, “I’ve always had a problem with communication.”

He catches it; it makes him pause, lift up his head, give you a tiny smile.

It takes you a minute to register that the seat across from you has been occupied. When you do look up, you realise Soonyoung’s mouth has been moving since he sat down, and you haven’t heard a word of it. Also, somewhere between the class you guys shared two days ago and his presence in the library this morning, his hair’s gone from a discreet dark brown to a particularly indiscreet blond.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, taking out your earphones and setting down your pen. “What?”

“I said – do you have a problem with communication or something?” Despite the nature of his words, he’s practically beaming at you.

You blink at him, bewildered. “I mean… maybe? But — what?”

He holds up his phone. “Project,” he explains elaborately. “I’ve been texting, and I didn’t get a reply, and then I saw you over here, so I thought I’d ask.”

You frown, grabbing your phone. “I didn’t get any texts.”

Soonyoung mirrors your expression, tapping at his screen, and you’re struck by how much the blond suits him. As did the brown. As did the black he had a semester ago. Not that you’ve been keeping track, but it’s hard to not notice someone like Soonyoung. Even if the first time you talked to him was two days ago to organise the project you’ve been paired up for — you know him. Of him, at least.

He swivels his screen round to face you, showing you a contact with your name and what you quickly realise is almost your number. You smile a little awkwardly, tapping the last digit. “That’s meant to be a seven. You’ve got an eight.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, “that explains it. Who the hell have I been texting about litigation then?”

Something about his expression and his tone is so comical it makes you laugh, which surprises him a little – he glances up at you with a blatantly admiring smile, and he taps the edge of the desk. “Your eyes light up when you laugh, did you know?” And as quickly as he says it, he moves on, gesturing to your phone. “I’ll text you about the project, okay?”

He’s like a hurricane, and you’re trying your best to keep up. “Okay,” you agree confusedly, still hot-faced from the sudden compliment. “Yes. That’s — yes.”

As he gets up to leave again, he shoots you another one of those blinding, dazzling smiles, and sticks his hand out. “We’re friends now, right?”

His question sounds childishly sweet, and you can’t find it in yourself to do anything other than agree. 

Your one little reference sets you both off. You spend the next two hours talking and talking and talking, every other sentence beginning with “Remember when…”, as the two of you dredge up the long-buried memories of four long years spent together.

Soonyoung talks about the massive crush he had on you before you even got paired up for the project. You talk about how you never believed him, even when he did ask you out – it took three tries before you understood how serious he was. And then you remember the time Soonyoung sprinted from campus to his accommodation and back just to get you the calculator you forgot for your exam – and the time you both went to a frat party and ended up playing the most intense game of UNO in the bathroom with Vernon, which ended in a drunk Soonyoung trying to flush the cards down the toilet. 

He talks about the surprise party you threw for his birthday, and you talk about the time he tried to make you pancakes for National Girlfriend Day and failed horribly. You ate them anyway.

You don’t, however, talk about other things, even if you remember them. You remember Soonyoung kissing your forehead every morning he woke up next to you. You remember him buying your favourite flowers for your favourite vase every week. You remember coming home after a long day to food already delivered and paid for when he was working hours and hours away. You remember being so incredibly in love that it made you giddy and so in love it made you calm. And you don’t talk about it, just store it away somewhere as a reminder of what love is meant to feel like. If four years with Soonyoung brought you anything, it’s that: it taught you how to love and be loved.

When the recovery team finally arrives, you leave the elevator feeling like a new person. It doesn’t hurt when you look at Soonyoung anymore, there’s only a vague, warm fondness. And he can look you in the eye now, which he does. He smiles at you, sticks out his hand the same way he did all those years ago.

“We’re friends now, right?”

an / AHHH!!!!!! i know this fic is only like 5k but it took a lot out of me so i’d love to hear your thoughts. literally any thoughts. i wanted this fic to be longer but it happened this way and. what can i do. i may be the author but im NOT in control. it’s not a fic i’m 100% proud of but i think it’ll still hold a special place in my heart!!!! i love an angsty exes au.

anyway — this will be my last fic this year!!! see you all in 2025 and thank you so much for all the notes and all the reblogs and all the wonderful conversations this year i love you

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[sturnslutz]

matt surprises angel for valentines day.

honestly no warnings besides fluff, smoking, and cursing. happy vday everybody! :) angst at the end, i'm sorry it's dirtbag!matt if u don’t wanna read the plot twist dont read the last sentence

matt was never one for valentines day. you were though. he's spent a couple valentines with a couple girls over the years, but never once bought something for them, other than just a good fuck.

he felt different for you, though. he knew you absolutely adored valentines day. all the pink, the hearts, the love in the air. he wanted to make you feel good, and not just with his dick. he wanted to see you happy.

he still denies having feelings for you.

when he told chris and nick his surprise for you, they couldn't even fathom thinking matt could be this nice, especially for someone he's know for 4 months, max. but they weren't complaining, and they knew you would love it.

this day has been hell for you. you wanted to be happy with valentines day, but your school work was piling with reviews for finals soon, and your job booked you a double shift, which made you confused because it was a library, and you didn't really expect anyone to come on valentines day. you were wrong.

it was around 6:30 that matt had texted you that he was picking you up from work after you mentioned to him earlier that you were working a double. luckily for him, it gave him extra time to set up and to do whatever he needed to do.

he texted you that he was outside, and you clocked out at 6:45. he was waiting outside on the curb, leaning on the passenger side with a blunt in his hand. when the doors opened, he looked over and smiled a bit. "hey, baby." he walked over, wrapping his arms around you, kissing the top of your head.

you didn't say anything, just hummed and wrapped your arms around his body. you inhaled his warmth, and his scent of weed and his cologne that you absolutely loved. he noticed your quietness and leaned his head down, kissing your cheek. "y'tired angel?" he asked softly in your ear.

you nodded, pushing your head deeper into his hoodie. "cmon. let's get you in the car, you're freezin'." he pulled away from the hug, but wrapping his arm across your shoulders as he walked you to his car. he opened the passenger side door, gently putting you in.

he got into the car, and started it, and giving you the blunt in his hand, which you happily accepted. "i got a surprise for you, angel. for valentines." your tired self looked up at him as your face lightened almost immediately. "really?" you said happily.

he nodded, smirking. "y'gonna love it. y'can go to sleep. i'll wake you when we get there." he rubs your thigh a bit, before squeezing it and turning on the seat heater for you, just like you like it.

you nod, handing the blunt back to him before leaning your head on the window, immediately letting sleep overcome you. about 15 minutes later, you wake up slightly to kisses on your hand.

your eyes flutter open, but a hand is covering your eyes. "are y'awake baby?" you nod a bit. "okay, i'm covering y'eyes because we're here. i want you to keep your eyes closed and i'll help you get out of the car, okay?" he says softly before kissing your hand again.

you nod again. "promise." he takes his hand off your eyes, and just like you promised, you kept your eyes closed. you heard his door open and quickly run to your side, opening your door now. he grabbed your hand, still making sure your eyes were closed, as he went behind you, pushing your back against his chest as his hand once again makes its way to your eyes. he begins walking slowly and then stops.

he takes his hand off your eyes. "don't open them yet. i need you to know i've never done this for any girl before, or anyone actually. i know i'm a bitch sometimes but y'the sweetest girl i know. chris 'n nick helped me with this. y'can open your eyes now." his speech came out a bit shaky, almost like he was nervous. you've never heard this tone from him before, but your heart fluttered.

you opened your eyes, the sun hitting them directly as the sun was setting. you let your vision become adjusted before actually looking at what was infront of you.

matt had brought you to your favorite spot in all of town, the spot matt had introduced to you, it was where the sun had set right behind the lake and forest, the view being perfect. he had set up a picnic with tons of bouquets of your favorite flowers.

your eyes filled with tears as you smiled big. you looked at matt, who was almost avoiding eye contact as he looked down and picked at his nails. "matt." you said, choked. he looked up at you before his face softened seeing your tears. "fuck- do you not like it? i knew it was cringy but-" "i love it, matt. thank you." you didn't let him get another word out before you hugged the boy, almost knocking the air out of his lungs.

he stood still for a bit, before relaxing into the hug, hugging you back softly. "really? y'like it?" you nod against his chest as he kisses your head before resting his chin on your head, rubbing your back. "cmon. enough cryin'." he says that, but makes no move to actually pull away.

after some time, you did pull away, sniffling. he looked down at your puffy face before he smiles, and you do too. "cmon, angel. let's go eat." he pulls your hand, bringing you to your pink blanket that you left at his house, resting on the grass. once you guys sat down, he thankfully brought his car up close enough to the blanket where you two would be able to lean back against the front, watching the sunset.

what you didn't know was the pics he had of the girl he saw right before he picked you up, in a pair of new lingere he had bought her in your favorite color.

taglist 1: @muwapsturniolo @lovergirl4gracieabrams @m4ttg1rl @lypsiiii @tyummyz @sturniqlo @emely9274 @shadowthesim @mattsobvimyfav @sturnl0ve @wastelandzella @fallininlust @chrisslut04 @sophand4n4 @vainilladollie @slutforchrissturniolo2 @ncm9696 @snoopychris @ilovedanielcaesar @sofieeeeex @chr0mehrts @cockettechris @iloveduckssm @stvrnioloslvt @sturn777 @priscillaog @allylovescody @sturniolo101 @mattssslutbby @mattybsgroupie @mattysketchup @m11rx @slut4brunettes @trevorsgodmother @chrislova @slut4christopherr @sturns-mermaid @oopsiedaisydeer @conspiracy-ash @p1mpactivities @sweeetbabysblog @brooklyncameron @chrisgetsmewetter @h3arts4harry @jetaimevous @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @raesturns @sturnsrecord @matteatmeout @luvvs4chriss comment to be added or removed.

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb (FINAL PART)

PART ONE HERE

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What could possibly go wrong after all?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 15k (fuck, that's it, I'm physically incapable of writing something succinct)

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND ROUGH SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post.

Please do not mistake this for a love story. The reader clearly suffers from a serious level of emotional instability and the abuser takes advantage of this fragility to threaten and use her. This is NOT healthy and NOT romantic in any way and I obviously do NOT agree with this attitude in real life. This is just a FICTIONAL HISTORY and it is only in this context that something like this can be tolerated. The tags are all there however and if you do not feel comfortable reading something like this, there is no need to leave any derogatory comments. JUST DON'T READ IT.

To those who stay, enjoy reading!

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

In the previous chapter:

And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims. You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty holes. The knowledge that there is no way out of the room is painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders stretching almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here was if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

----

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your head tilts down discreetly. Submission. It’s instinctive, really. Your body knows what this man is capable of, remembers the brutal, bloody state his victims were found in. You don’t want that fate for yourself.

He hums at that, pleased with your pliant reaction - and you blush at the raw humiliation of feeling so inferior to someone else.

“So good, sweetie.”

He sighs ecstatically, pushing the two of you deep into the bathroom just enough to close the door, the click of the key locking it sounding purposefully loud. You feel the shape of an invisible hand holding your beating heart between its fingers, your breath coming in shallow huffs through your lips. He’s locked you in here, with him.

How did this happen? How did you, probably the only person who was actually taking this whole police alert about a serial killer on the loose seriously, end up here? How the hell is this possible, God?

Your phone vibrates from where it's on the floor and you jump in fright, the screen facing down doesn't allow you to see who's calling when you look at it. But it doesn't matter. You immediately look up at the man, see how he understands what you're going to do before it even happens; his ghostly face tilts toward the ceiling, an almost disappointed sigh sounding from beneath the mask.

"I praised you too soon, right?"

It turns out that if showing their fragile parts to a predator seeking mercy and lowering the head in submission is a natural primal instinct when there's seemingly no escape, then it's also a natural instinct to act immediately when a glimmer of hope and survival appears.

And your phone ringing is a glimmer of hope.

You dive to where it lies with your heart racing, desperate for the opportunity to warn someone of your situation and get help. But your fingers barely graze the object before a large hand grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head, holding you in place before you can reach it.

On your knees on the bathroom tile, you’re thrashing hysterically in his iron grip, ugly sobs of pain escaping your lips with each rough tug at the roots of your hair.

“No! Let me go, please! HELP!” You scream as loud as you can, hoping it’s enough to alert someone outside, even though the obnoxiously loud music downstairs limits your chances to almost zero. You barely register the heavy thud of the knife hitting the floor as you open your mouth to scream louder, your voice muffled by another heavy hand slamming into your mouth, the leather of his glove squeezing your lips and cheeks until they hurt.

He lifts you to your feet with just his grip on your hair, your scream of agony once again muffled by his gloved fingers. The man doesn't let you go even when he reaches the bathroom sink, where he practically throws you against the counter, your hip bones jarring sharply with the impact. You slip a little in pain, shaking hands gripping his wrist as you claw desperately to make him release your mouth, staring in horror at the shadowy figure behind your body.

Your heartbeat is roaring loudly in your ears as you cease the attack and stare at the dark, empty eyes of the mask in the mirror, his body against yours.

The indigo lighting makes his presence even more sinister, shadowing a tall, frightening silhouette looming over you like a mythological god of death, dressed all in black. Except, of course, for his bizarre mask with sunken, innocuous eyes, like black holes etched in an agonized expression, the mouth dark and open in an eternal silent scream. The material of the mask is so white that it contrasts exaggeratedly against the black background covering his body, even in the violet light of the bathroom. Over his head he wears a wide hood that frames his mask and gathers around the long line of his strong shoulders like an ominous shawl, followed below by a kind of ragged-looking tunic, long sleeves on each arm, a subtle tightening around his waist, deliberately highlighting the defined plane of his abdomen. Below his waist, the tunic continues flowing to his ankles, with an opening running the length of each leg clad in trousers - to allow ease of movement, you presume. He needs agility to stalk students and kill them mercilessly, after all. To finish off the somber look, he wears military boots on his feet, intricate lines of laces running the length of them.

"How about you and I play a little game?" He asks close to your ear, white mask poking the side of your face, empty eyes staring at your reflection in the mirror. You struggle to breathe between the gaps of his fingers on your face, your eyes growing moist as the desperate situation truly sinks in.

"A really fun little game called 'don't scream when I let go of your mouth and in return I won't decorate the floor with your entrails'. How does that sound?" The way he says it, casual and easy, rivals the cruel grip on your hair, or the way his fingers press into the flesh of your cheeks until you squeal in pain.

The smell of blood surrounds you again, the same metallic, damp smell you felt when you were near the dripping knife he had between his fingers, and your senses seem to be heightened by the adrenaline flooding your veins. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the smell is coming from him this time. From his clothes, you notice, as if the slimy stuff had been splattered across much of the shadowy fabric covering his body. And it was. You know it was.

Who was the victim tonight? Who was stabbed so brutally that their blood splattered like ketchup all over this monster’s clothes?

Would you suffer the same fate?

“I asked you a question, princess. Do you want to play with me or not?” He presses, a hint of impatience in his voice, the already crushing grip on your scalp tightening even more.

You nod as best you can at the restraint of his fingers in your hair and mouth, pretending you actually have some say in this, salty tears sliding down your waterline with the shaky movement.

“Good girl.”

He laughs close to your ear, a low, dark — but happy — tremor. He’s enjoying himself, basking in the satisfaction of your scared, teary expression. He’s insane.

“That’s it, love, isn’t it so much easier this way?” He purrs as he loosens his grip on your mouth, the back of his index finger massaging your cheek as you practically choke on the breath that vibrates too raggedly through your newly freed lips. He towers over you, watches you in the mirror with predatory focus - sees you struggle to keep yourself together, fresh tears dripping from your lower lashes, wetting the leather of the glove on his finger. “Mmm, you look so good like this, it makes me so fucking hard to see your tears fall for me.”

“Oh my God…” you choke, absolutely terrified at the man’s sickening sincerity, your eyes wide and wet, face to face with the singular reason for your nightmares. 

“Shh,” he takes a step closer to you, pinning you even tighter against the sink counter and his body, letting you feel the undeniable truth in his earlier statement — the thick tent in his pants digging into your lower back until you whimper out a sharp sound, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.”

You find yourself subtly wilting at the dangerous warning, though more out of sheer horror than subservience.

“A-are you going to kill me?” Your voice cracks at the end, scared and shrill; the sound of someone truly cornered — a little mouse caught in a cruel glue trap, just awaiting its inevitable end.

“Now, that wouldn't be fun, would it?” he pretends to ponder, his gloved fingertip drumming over your jaw now, down to your cheek, and you’re shaking so hard you think you might be shaking his body along with yours. “Oh no, I could never kill you. Hurt you? Yeah, maybe. But killing my little girl? That's a big nope to me.”

If he thought that would bring you any comfort, then he was sorely mistaken.

He grabs your face before you can properly react to his frightening words, his large, strong hand barely needing to exert much effort to do so, eclipsing your delicate features with his long fingers, the endless darkness of the glove contrasting with your skin. He squeezes your cheeks together until your lips purse into a fishy pout, forces your jaw up so you meet the blank stare of his mask in the mirror - and all you can do is cringe under his dangerous aura.

“Look at that, aren’t you the cutest little thing?”

You definitely don’t like the tone he uses, the easygoing, smug way he holds himself above you; as if he knows there’s absolutely nothing you can do to free yourself from his grasp, completely at his mercy. Chest thrusting into you, muscular thighs encasing your hips, hips pressed against your ass; keeping you in place. You try to claw at his wrist again, just to confirm the horrifying fact that no, he’s not going anywhere.

The grip on your cheeks loosens as he slides his hand to your throat, gloved fingers curling to rest over the hysterically pulsing vessels on either side, completely encircling the slender column of your neck with elongated digits like spider legs. He doesn’t apply any real pressure, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to. As he holds your gaze in the reflection with those cold, dark circles of his ghostly mask, the threat of his vast capacity for violence hangs as heavily as he does over your body.

He could rip you apart, right here and now. He could sink his sharp teeth into your neck like a dog would a chew toy, shaking your stuffed body between his jaws until only foam and patches remain.

The paralyzing fear is an increasingly real sensation in your chest, the cold curtain of numbness lifting on your skin and you swallow hard, your throat working under his fingers. Your heart pounds violently, so hard you can feel it in your ears, in your skull. Your eyes flutter in the mirror and your breath is just a broken whistle between your lips. He's pushing you straight into what will be a second episode in the same night, an unprecedented feat in your life - as fucked up as it has been so far.

"W-wait, please I-" You gasp, pulling at his grip messily, already feeling the spiral of panic wrapping around your thoughts like a vise, the claustrophobic noose that is the feeling of total inability to control yourself tightening around your throat.

"Cut that shit, little girl." Your tormentor breathes close to your ear, firm and authoritative, almost sullen as he stares into your terrified eyes in the mirror, his fingers on your throat squeezing slightly - just enough to make you feel it. "You're staying here with me, understand? It was cute the first time, but I don't want to hear about that shit now. I have much more interesting things to do with you than watch that pretty little head go somewhere I can't reach it. Yeah, I'm a selfish guy like that."

He finishes with a dry laugh and you don't know what's worse; his complete disrespect in describing your very real and very traumatic panic attack as something 'cute' or his incorrect assumption that you had a choice in this - that you could simply stop it from happening.

The grip on your throat is tighter now, your breathing becoming severely labored. His hand wraps around your throat and presses hard enough to make you struggle to breathe. You buck and push, running on pure instinct even though your efforts are restrained by his strength, the blood on his black robes spreading across your body like an artist’s brushstrokes in movement.

The notion that this man killed someone before coming to you is there once more, even more prominent now, pounding in your head like blows from a hammer.

“Relax, damn it, or I’ll make you.” He continues his unreasonable demand, squeezing his grip to press you against his chest until you feel every heated inch of him against your body, especially the disturbing way the thick line of his cock inevitably pushes and presses into your lower back with each sharp breath.

You want to scream at him and tell him that what he’s doing is the complete opposite of encouraging you to relax. But anxiety courses through your veins and your eyes close, spilling salty tears. You see grotesque shadows and demons you never thought you would see behind the darkness of your eyelids. It suffocates you, terrifies you, makes you tremble. You can’t move, you can’t escape, you can’t even open your eyes; you can only feel. Your heart is about to explode. You can’t hear anything. Your head hurts and your mind starts to shut down. That’s it, you’re falling again.

And then you feel your body shaking uncontrollably, something crawling under your skin like a lazy parasite. It’s not bad and that’s the first warning sign. Your temporarily inert mind, shut down for God knows how long, restarts with a slow trickle, your breathing becoming a little less hyperventilating and more...warm? However, you can’t force yourself to open your eyes yet, you can’t hear anything around you, you can’t even deduce what’s happening beyond the dark barrier of your closed eyelids. You feel strangely calmer, but filled to the brim with confused apprehension.

You shiver as the strange sensation comes on stronger, sticky molasses coursing through your veins, warming your belly to bring your mind back to reality.

Brought back....

When your eyes open, lethargic and sleepy, tears still blur your hazy vision until you can stare once more at the killer's ghostly mask.

“Welcome back, princess…” The tall man speaks and even hidden under the mask you know he’s smiling. His upper body is hunched over, wrapping your body in a sort of unwanted intimate cocoon. One of his arms is around your torso, keeping both of your arms firmly attached to your sides as if you were a Barbie doll, his other arm stretched down, beyond the visible limits of the mirror. You try to cast your eyes down to see where his hand is, a bad feeling in your chest, but your vision is fuzzy, swimming in dizziness and inconstancy. The threat of a second episode has drained the little strength that was left in your body.

You might even feel compelled to show gratitude for having escaped the oppressive spiral of a new crisis before it reached critical levels. Except something doesn’t feel right.

“W-what?” You ask in a thin voice, your head spinning with tiredness, your body kept upright only by the sink counter and the pressure the man exerts on your back. Feels wrong. You feel like you’re going to throw up at any moment. Your body is begging you to lie down and take a nap for an entire year. It’s a different kind of hysteria, you realize, like you’ve escaped one panic attack only to fall into another completely different one.

Heavy breaths rush from your mouth and your tongue feels sticky and dry as you try to swallow, squinting back into the mirror, trying to piece together the fragmented pieces of information in front of you to make sense of what’s happening.

He’s looking at you too. Even hidden beneath that mask, you feel his gaze burning into your reflection, drinking in the drunken confusion etched on your face, the fear — the shiver of unwanted pleasure that rips through your body like an invisible knife.

What’s happening?

You want to scream.

As you gaze up at him from beneath damp lashes, the burning sensation in your body seems to creep upon itself, gradually merging with the nerves in your belly as something warm and syrupy — needy — pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby. See how much relaxed you are now?” He purrs with lazy irony, savoring each syllable on his tongue like an addictive candy. “Of course you did, the baby just needed something different to focus that little head of her on.”

There’s a gentle but rhythmic swaying of the muscles along his arm, you notice with your eyes locked on the mirror, a disturbingly familiar movement — and a shiver of wet pleasure licks up your spine as you squint, a very instinctive, primal part of your brain finally breaking through the hazy fog to scream that it knows exactly where his hand is.

Your awareness of the world around you returns like a punch to the gut, painful and suffocating, as you feel the leather of his glove between your legs.

"N-no! No, please, I don't want to-" You stammer, tired and scared beyond belief, struggling to escape the man, but his grip around you is like a heavy chain, his arm still keeping yours locked tightly at your sides.

This man has somehow managed to rescue you from a traumatic encounter with your own demons, only to plunge you into a different kind of terror - one even more agonizing.

Your sobbed protests mean nothing in the face of the killer's sick desires, as he languidly slides two of his fingers in a V around your clit, up and down. A shiver runs through you, your thighs instinctively clenching around his hand, a reaction that in turn elicits an amused chuckle from the man.

You shake and beg louder as he continues to rub your pussy, his hand writhing inside the tiny shorts you wear under your costume skirt, ignoring your breathy sobs and whimpers as if you were just a cute, whiny puppy. You shiver, your inner walls clenching around nothing with each lick of his fingers around your clit, reacting against your will to his teasing touches.

A haze of fear and pleasure takes over your mind as you shake your head, struggling to breathe through your nose to keep from passing out. It all feels too much and yet not enough, your hands twitching nonstop where they’re held, your body shaking from head to toe. Your blood runs thick as you stare at him in the mirror, begging in a way. Trying to say anything, since your voice doesn’t even seem to work with the overwhelming wave of feelings coursing through you. Your lips just part, nothing but a wordless plea.

“Oh, poor girl, don’t struggle so much…just relax, I’ll take such good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything but staying there and being soft and pretty for me. Let me think of everything else.” He sings condescendingly, the elongated tip of the ghostly mask’s chin appearing in your line of vision as he rests his jaw on your shoulder, the material of the hood brushing against the side of your flushed face.

His scent is enveloping you like a chokehold now; rich, clotted blood, running red and still warm on his clothing — which is now permanently stained on your costume as well, to your horror. But beneath all that disturbing scent of wet iron, there are also notes of crackling, mossy sandalwood and something fresh, citrusy like lemons or bergamots.

If it weren’t for the blood trying so hard to overwhelm everything else, his scent would be pleasant, your clouded mind realizes, seductive even.

The sight before you is breathtaking, to say the least - and not in a pleasant way.

A pathetic, broken little girl is crying, her cheeks red and streaked with tears, her eyes drunk and her brows furrowed in anguish. On her body she wears a foolish Sailor Mars costume that barely covers her body, a stupid thing she didn't even want to wear in the first place, the fabric of the red skirt draped in front of her thighs swaying suggestively, right where the hand of the man behind her remains hidden. The man in question, a vicious killer highly wanted by the police, covers her almost completely with his tall frame and black robes - a stark contrast to the girl's almost childish outfit. The white mask on his face rests on her shoulder, his long arm caging her small body close to his, touching every part he can reach as he squeezes and caresses her as if he would die without it. It's almost romantic, in theory, but horrifying and frightening when you know what's really happening.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, refusing to look down and confirm what your nerves and body already know all too well is happening. Fear grips your throat so tightly that you shake like a leaf, tears streaming from your eyes as you feel his first finger delve inside you.

It should hurt. The rough material of the glove in direct contact with such an entirely sensitive part of your body should be uncomfortable, at the very least. But it isn’t. There’s something aiding your endeavor, your hindbrain adds as his finger sinks in all the way to the first knuckle with just a little pressure from his wrist. There’s something sticky and thick there along with his finger, messing with your folds with humiliating sounds — spit, probably.

“Please…stop—” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly you swear constellations explode in the darkness of your eyelids.

“You know,” he begins, ignoring your foolish plea, impatient as he pushes his finger the rest of the way into your trembling, clenching walls until you squeak out a sob, body tensing like a bow beneath his. “There’s a look on people’s faces that I meet. A hysterical, helpless look when they realize that this is the end for them. No matter how much they’ve resisted and fought, they all get that look when the time comes. It’s not exactly a look of begging for mercy. No, they’re usually past that point at this moment.” His chuckle is nothing short of disturbing near your ear, the arm around your waist rising so that he can grab a thick fistful of your hair between his fingers and squeeze until you cry out loudly at the sharp pain and open your eyes, obeying his silent demand to face him once more through the mirror.

“No, it’s not a plea for mercy, sweetie. It’s just a anguished conformity, you know? A part of them even wants to hold out longer, out of instinct I guess, but deep down they know it’s useless. They just know it’s over for them. And that’s when that look appears.”

Your breath hitches visibly as he slides a second finger alongside the first.

“It’s the same look you have now. That look of pure agony and submission on your face, all because you just know you can’t escape me...mmm,” He’s closer than ever, rubbing the mask on the side of your face, and all you can think is that he’s right. As much as your body tells you to run, you know there’s no way you can outrun him, he’s unfortunately more capable than you in every way that matters right now.

He presses himself even closer to your body, his voice slurred in your ear.

“You make me so fucking horny, baby.”

He’s not slow, much less gentle when he moves his fingers inside you. He fucks you with them seriously from the first few seconds, curling them each time he sinks back into your heat, your walls clenching around him, warring to adjust to the unexpected assault. Your cries of pain are interrupted by small involuntary moans and gasps every time he presses too deep inside you, finding a spot that makes you dizzy, held only by his painful grip on your hair. You bite your lip, struggling to keep the noises inside.

He makes a grunting sound, tongue clicking disapprovingly beneath his mask.

“None of that, princess. Let me hear those beautiful sounds. They’re there because of me, I cultivated them...they’re all mine.” Your head falls back on his shoulder as he suddenly moves his hand down your clavicle, long fingers pushing aside the fluffy purple lace of your costume to grip one of your breasts tightly. “You’re all mine.” Even over the fabric of your clothes, his grip on your breast is possessive, and you wish your arms would fight back when he starts dragging his palm across your nipple, prickling it until it becomes a sensitive little peak. But all you can do is lift your hands to rest them on the counter, your head still thrown back against his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, his thumb now rubbing against the nub of your nipple with small flicks that send a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. “I knew you’d be perfect. So pathetic to me, baby. You feel so good…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, a muffled sob escaping your lips as he pushes your body forward, making you arch into the counter, his larger body pressed against your back, his hands still glued to their respective places. He curls his fingers into your pussy, a small moan leaving you, and begins to pound against your back. He keeps you bent over as he thrusts his clothed cock between your ass cheeks, each rough thrust pushing another inch of your skirt up your hips.

“Spread your legs for me,” he pants next to your ear. When you tense and don’t comply immediately, the hand on your breast squeezes so hard it actually hurts. “Are you going to make me repeat myself, princess? Every second you make me wait, I get more impatient. Are you sure you want to see me impatient?”

You quickly part your legs, the action causing his fingers to dig deeper between your swollen walls with each hard thrust, wet sounds sounding too loud in the cramped bathroom. His hips move against your back in rough motions, grinding up and down, causing heat to spread throughout your body until your head is spinning, broken sounds leaving your lips. The gummy walls of your pussy contract around his fingers and he growls as he ravages your body like it belongs to him.

You feel good and horrible.

Blood on fire, nerves on fire, you breathe as a way to steady yourself in this moment of maddening agony. You are uncomfortable in every way possible in the given situation, and oh how it fills the void in your soul with something...alive.

Here, at the mercy of this killer's cruel hands, you feel alive for the first time in what feels like forever. It's horrible and unwelcome and scary as hell, but it's also absolutely electrifying.

How fucked up is your mind anyway?

The man continues to grind into your ass with every heated inch of his cock, the movement of his fingers in your pussy quickening, the heel of his gloved hand rubbing relentlessly against your clit in this position. The hand on your breast doesn't stop teasing your nipple, poking and pinching. With every noise he pulls from you, his movement becomes faster, hips matching the rhythm of his fingers in your intimacy. As if you were egging him on. You whimper, squeezing him so hard you could tell you were trying to keep him out, but the action only serves to heighten the sickening pleasure coiling in your stomach.

“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting his fingers in and out, in and out, watching in the mirror as your face contorts with pleasure. “So good. Feeling so good to me. You squeeze my fingers so hard, princess. Fuck. That’s my good fucking girl, yeah?”

Admittedly someone with a blatant emotional inability to accept any kind of compliment — especially one from a fucking serial killer who’s currently keeping you impaled on his fingers while grinding his cock into your ass and making you cry like he’s getting paid to — you slump your shoulders and pant, staring wide-eyed at the man, your rapid breathing fogging the glass of the mirror. His words sink into your bones, stoking the rising heat in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around his fingers again. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing his masked face against your burning cheek.

“Do you like that, you filthy slut? Do you like when I tell you how good you feel? Hell, you’re fucking squeezing me. Your pretty little pussy wants me so bad.”

Your eyelashes flutter and your breathing becomes more ragged; fear, pleasure, and pain combine into one intense experience, and you realize with horror that you’re approaching orgasm. It’s humiliating, but it doesn’t stop you from tentatively moving your own hips against his palm, seeking more friction on your little clit as heated tears roll down your cheeks.

‘No, no, no, please.’ You whimper to yourself, eyes nearly rolling into the back of the head as you arch your ass into his hips in involuntary response to the inescapable, frenzied sensation coursing through your body.

“The poor baby’s gonna cum.” He chuckles, though his own voice is breathy, wild. “Yeah, gonna make a fucking mess of that pussy and get it all nice and wet for my cock, right?” He growls wickedly between his chuckles, pushing your body forward with each hard drag of his cock into your ass, grinding the leather of his glove into your clit as he repeatedly hits the same sensitive spot in your cunt.

You can’t take it anymore, your clenched jaw slackening as you begin to give in to the pleasure. The overwhelming wave of your coming orgasm is visible on the horizon and you can’t do anything but stare at it head on, waiting helplessly to be absolutely swept away by it.

"Ah ah, fuck!" You cry out between parted lips, viciously squeezing the edge of the counter between your fingers, losing control over your body, unable to stop yourself from moaning lewdly in time with the forced climax.

With one last flick of his fingers and a pinch to your nipple, you have no choice but to stare blankly into the mirror as you shatter into a thousand pathetic pieces with a strangled scream. The trembling of your inner thighs is quickly followed by your toes curling inside the red boots of the costume as you cum hard around the masked killer's fingers.

Your pussy quivers violently as he shakes with laughter against your body, with a dose of sincere joy that you would find almost childish if it weren't for the obscene way he is still thrusting his cock into your back. He continues to finger fuck you throughout your orgasm, leaving you gasping and writhing in shocks of pleasure, your eyes wide and wet in the mirror.

“Please stop, that’s enough-” You gasp, your legs locking from the overstimulation as he continues to work your clit mercilessly. “P-please, I’ll do anything, please just stop! Stop now -"

You're interrupted as a whirlwind of dizzying events ensues; one moment he's fingering your pussy to overstimulation with no intention of stopping - the next he's pulling his fingers from your quivering walls with such force that it elicits a shocked gasp from you. Your body is suddenly spun around and your back slams painfully into the mirror with an impact strong enough to crack the glass into several sharp ridges on your back, small shards getting stuck in the back of your costume. You have half a second to scream at the dangerous sensation before he's straightening you up on the counter, his body wedging between your parted legs before you can even react and close them.

You're still trying to figure out what happened; how he managed to just lift you into the air and slam you into the counter like you weighed nothing. How he was so quick to do it and, most importantly, what motivated him to do it. But all is forgotten when he grabs your neck between his fingers, roughly pulling your face closer to his until you're face to face with that ghostly mask.

But there's no fake face in the world that can hide the anger bubbling through the man's pores. A feeling so obvious, intense and abrupt that it makes you shiver and try to pull away reflexively, but his grip won't let you go anywhere. His already undeniably imposing figure straightens to its full height, intimidating and dangerous, a ominous and dark aura that encircles your body like a spool of doom.

"Stop? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me when to stop? Do you know who decides when we stop, you bitch? Me! That fucking cunt belongs to me. It's mine as fuck and you're not going to tell me when I should or shouldn't touch it. Because your whole body, your mind, your fucking soul, is mine. Mine."

He curses and bites acidly right in front of your face and fear hits you all at once, absolutely terrifying: the way he’s panting under his mask and hissing with barely contained rage, the way your name leaves his lips in a heated growl. A direct threat from a mindless animal. It’s all clear — so, so clear.

He’s dangerous and unstable and horrible and you can’t escape him.

Your hands start to tug at his wrist, pushing him away, already sensing what’s coming - and it really comes. Ignoring your futile attempt to push him away, the hand on your throat tightens. His fingers press, cutting off the air, squeezing and hurting your flesh. Your windpipe is tightly caged between his palm and thumb and he shows no hesitation as he presses hard, suffocating you with a cruel grip.

Now, unlike his outburst of anger a few seconds ago, with your life literally being measured in his hands, he becomes the cold and indifferent embodiment of his alias, watching your fight as if it were nothing new.

It isn't.

The world around you begins to spin as you feel dizzy, your head swimming and spinning as your heart beats uselessly against the finger over your carotid artery, numb lips and throat working ever more slowly beneath his hand. Your struggle is over, as meaningless as it was to begin with.

You surrender to this ghost, dropping his hands from his wrist and letting your body go limp beneath him.

The monster senses your surrender, humming contently at your soft submission, even though you are barely conscious enough to notice. The grip on your throat loosens and you instinctively tilt your head away from his grasp, gasping for breath in desperate noises, coughing and spitting as tears spill over in response to the throbbing sting in the circumference of your throat. You feel a large hand stroke your hair as you struggle to catch your breath; and the almost patronizing touch, as horrible and unwelcome as it is, grounds you for a moment, helping you gradually transform your rapid, labored breathing into deep sighs.

"Don't forget what I'm going to say now and maybe we won't have to go through this again, princess:" He whisper at you with serious voice. "You're mine. For better or worse. You're mine."

The hand in your hair moves forward, tangling in the strands, massaging your skull, and it's probably just the hazy haze of suffocation that keeps you from noticing his next move, but it's the feel of a gentle, wet kiss on the bruised line his fingers have left on your skin that makes you conscious once more. He holds your head firmly by the hair, preventing you from moving to get a better look, but it's immediately clear that he's pushed the mask up enough to expose his lips, which continue to slide along the curve of your neck and jaw.

Your ears are throbbing with the pounding of your heart as you stare over the killer’s shoulder at the wall across the bathroom with wide eyes – the man blowing puffs of pure wet heat across your skin to leave goosebumps in his wake. His mouth is undesirably soft and delicate on your bruised skin (pleasant really, you’d say, if you weren’t, well…in the situation you’re in), his other hand coming up so he can rub his thumb across your lips, slowly parting them until he pokes your teeth with the tip of his glove.

“Open that pretty mouth and show me you know it, sweet little slut.” He whispers the degradation with a noticeably lessened dose of hatred than before – low and breathy, his mouth on your cheek, his thumb pulling away to run his index and middle fingers across your parted lips.

His breath bathes your skin in wet heat, the refreshing scent of some mint gum he chewed recently still there. (He was chewing a damn piece of gum while he murdered someone, your mind completes in full hysterics. Brutally piercing some poor student's insides with the sharp blade of that knife while he carelessly rolls the soft gum between his teeth. He's sick, sick, sick.)

"Suck them clean." He orders, cutting through the murky waters of your wandering mind as pushes two fingers onto the flat of your tongue, forcing you to accept the invasion.

It's on autopilot that you register the strong, smoky taste of leather mixed with the familiar taste of your arousal, which still glistens with the fresh wetness of your orgasm on the surface of his glove. You squeeze your eyes shut, gagging more at the sheer depravity of the act than the intrusion itself.

"That's it, princess. So beautiful like this, taking my fingers like a good girl..." he pulls his face away to look at yours, smiling at your fearful gaze; you close the lips around his fingers, sucking and licking slowly at the soft leather of the glove as you clean your own taste from the material as if you meant it - even as the tears keep falling. All you can see in the purple lighting of the bathroom is the lower half of his face and even that is partial, the white mask resting on his nose shadowing what little skin is visible. Despite that, it is evident how his smile stretches, wide and mischievous - pearly teeth slightly crooked at the front, canines sharp and shiny, like those of a cunning predator that has caught up with its prey.

His grip on your hair tightens to keep you still, his fingers coming to life as he thrusts slowly, out and in and out and in, into the cozy warmth of your mouth. You choke around him, saliva pooling between teeth and flesh as he pushes your tongue down, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy — each slow stroke pushing deeper, until you feel the tips of both his fingers sliding down your throat.

“God, I want to feel so bad that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock,” he sighs, his gaze locked on yours, fascinated by your gasps and sobs, his smile slowly dying so he can bite his lip as he hums dreamily, “you’re going to be so good to me, I just know it.”

Your wet gaze is half-lidded, mouth slack and full, only giving in to the forced intrusion when you feel him gather the strands of your hair into a messy ponytail in his other hand to pull and push your head along his now-still fingers - the explicit and purposeful parallel of the depraved act with another very unique one does not go unnoticed.

He's guiding the rhythm of your head as if he is dictating how you suck his cock.

It is humiliating; a byproduct of male dominance that is offensive and filthy in its most brutal form. You hate every damn second of this silent abuse. But your pussy seems to have a mind of its own, because with each forced thrust against the saliva-soaked leather of the glove, it clenches a little tighter around nothing, demanding attention.

You whimper at the betrayal of your own body, mouth stuffed and saliva beginning to drip down your lips and chin.

When he withdraws his fingers from between your lips, it is with calculated slowness, prolonging the elasticity of a thick thread of saliva that remains joining the digits in the glove to your loose tongue. He grunts a satisfied sound at the debauched sight, lowering his face to stretch out his own tongue and break the sticky bond after a few seconds of contemplation, licking the saliva accumulated on your chin upwards with a greedy drag of the wet and hot muscle, lighting flames of embarrassment on your cheeks.

You shudder at the grip on your hair as he pulls your head back at the same time as roughly sinks his teeth into the soft plush of your lower lip. Your little hands immediately spread themselves on his chest to try to push him away, but this and your cry of pain only serve to draw an amused laugh from him. It is obviously of his own free will that he mercifully gives in to your plea after a few seconds of torture. He sucks the sensitive flesh into his lips, licking and soothing the bite with a gentle, wet suction.

Mistakenly, your body decides to relax against his hands, welcoming the gentle but cunning care that is his tongue caressing the small, bloody cut he left on your lip. He eases your pain, even if it is because of him that you feel it in the first place.

It is natural for the contact to evolve, after all, his tongue is right there; sliding across your lower lip, his lips brushing yours provocatively. It is really predictable what would happen next, but it still pulls a dazed gasp from your throat.

His fingers hold your head firmly by the ponytail and his mouth covers yours completely, like a wet, warm cocoon that you cannot escape. The groan that sounds from his throat at the feel of your lips on his is one of deep satisfaction, a breathy appreciation that rumbled as he curls his body over yours, locks your legs around his waist, and moves his mouth over yours.

It’s nothing like any kiss you’ve ever experienced in the past. You’re not even sure if it could even be called a kiss.

There are perhaps no words for it other than hunger and need as he barely touches his mouth to yours before his lips are forcing yours apart so the wet muscle of his tongue can slide between your teeth. He’s rough and intense, kissing you like he’s kicking your soul out of your body. It’s all a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves you with your hands trembling in the collar of his robe, your eyes half-lidded and your cheeks flushed as you struggle not to choke on the wild rhythm of the pseudo-kiss. Every inch of the contact feels equally forced and premeditated, an unaltered conclusion that has you subtly pushing your hips forward against him as the sheer surprise and discomfort of the act subsides into something deeper. Darker. You can barely breathe in the tiny, moist inches that open between your lips, making small choking sounds in his mouth - stunned, outraged, humiliated, bursting into flames-

The pointed chin of the mask is digging painfully into your skin at this angle and all you can do is try to tilt your head to the side to avoid hurting yourself, since the man doesn't seem to have the slightest interest in your comfort. But not even this is enough to contain the chilling flame that grows between your legs with each hot breath that leaves the killer's nostrils on your cheek, his greedy tongue licking your teeth and his lips drinking your saliva as if it were the most delicious wine.

When he breaks the kiss it's like breathing after a long time underwater, your other senses dulled and directed only at him like a funnel.

"What in the bloody hell was that? Getting a guy all heated and bothered with a kiss," He grins between a breathy laugh, barely separating his lips from yours, rubbing the tips of your noses together in a comical imitation of affection as you both breathe heavily, "you really are something special, aren't you little girl?"

As you gasp for air, feeling your cheeks darken several shades at the unwanted compliment, the man caresses your face in a disturbingly affectionate manner, as if he's rewarding you for letting him kiss your mouth like that, even though it's clear he's not done yet. Pulling away from you just a few inches, you twitch and yelp as he roughly grabs you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the counter, making you subconsciously lean your back. A second later, he rips the tiny shorts you're wearing down, skimming over the curve of your ass and thighs, grabbing the flesh there greedily as he simply rips the thing off your body.

It takes a few seconds for the realization that there are no more barriers in place to keep the killer at bay to sink in — not that it ever did stop him before anyway. But knowing that beneath your red pleated skirt there’s no covering to offer even a modicum of safety (even if misguided) is nerve-racking in a way that makes your blood roar through your veins, and, illogically, not in a bad way.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, wet, breathless lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he bends down slightly to unbuckle his belt. The clink of metal is nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the loud music downstairs. “That’s what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you look up with those big, shy eyes — I want you to look at me, I need that look to be mine. And you don’t understand, do you? You drive me so fucking crazy, girl.” You barely put up a fight when he takes a thigh in each hand and wraps them around his waist before taking his cock in his palm and stroking it a little. It takes everything in you not to look down, teeth sinking into the soft, swollen surface of your lower lip as you hear the wet squelch that the contact between his gloved fingers and his cock makes with each lewd tug.

There should be more resistance in you, but all that’s left at this point is exhaustion and the painful slap of reality that comes with accepting the fact that you’re not rejecting this as much as you used to. There’s a war going on between your body and your mind. Where, of course, you know how sick this man is and how dangerous it would be to give in, there’s also the certainty that he brings out something undesirable in you — that intoxicating, dark sensation of feeling good about being so violently desired by someone. It’s not something you’re proud of, of course. But there’s no denying the way your body wants to succumb to it, to give itself completely to this cruel man you don’t even know but who is obviously obsessed with you. It’s something you can’t begin to comprehend, much less accept, but it comes rushing back to you anyway.

Your poor therapist might have a thing or two to say about such urges.

He rubs the bulbous crown of his cock against your sensitive, shamefully touch-starved clit and you shiver as the heat and dew of his pre-cum spreads through you at the contact. A warm, newborn droplet trickles over your bud of nerves, bathing it in tingling as he steadily nudges the tip along your wet folds. His thumb joins in the teasing, swirling with a few hard rubs followed by a softer touch, too deliberate to be anything but expert, pushing against the hood and pulling it back, exposing your nub to him even more. From his expose lips he makes a deep sound as he feels you getting wetter, more slippery. He circles your clit relentlessly and it’s him who moans louder between the two of you, even though it’s you who’s eyes are rolling back in pleasure.

He recovers quickly, though. Hearing and seeing how loud the sounds of your wetness ring out in the small bathroom, he breathes a laugh so mocking and icy that you feel yourself immediately wither against the mirror behind you, your face burning with the blush of a new wave of humiliation. The killer ignores you, of course, using one hand to lift your thigh up and to the side, doing the same with the other, adjusting both of your legs so that your feet rest almost flat along the edge of the counter - exposing you as if your modesty and dignity mattered nothing at all.

And it doesn't. Not to him.

"So wet." He teases, annoyingly making a point of giving voice to what you've both already realized. His hand slides over the curve of your thigh possessively, pushing the draped fabric of your red skirt with it so that it bunches at your hips. He groans as watches his length freely slide through the slickness between your legs, giving a shallow pump forward. The gloved thumb presses with just the right amount of force, rubbing in a circular motion that makes your toes curl inside the boots and your throat tighten at the noise you suppress. That is, until the soft, wet tip catches against your opening and he pushes inside without further ado.

You gasp loudly at the sharp pressure, reflexively slapping the hands against his chest to push him away, but soon both his arms are around your body, preventing you from going any further, pinning you against him with his strong hands and his cock.

“Aaaah!” You cry out, and he immediately brushes his lips against your ear, leaving a sharp bite on the sensitive flesh, enjoying the struggle evident on your face. Your pussy hasn’t been used properly in a long time, and this man certainly doesn’t lack in the size department.

“Shhhh,” he hums, sounding too pleased for it to even remotely be interpreted as an attempt at comfort. “You can handle it, baby,” he whispers in your ear, one hand relaxing its iron grip on your body to cup your cheek, “I know you can.”

It’s not like he’s giving you any options other than to handle it. And yet, over the sting of the stretch and the ache of being taken without denying it, your insides burn with dark desire. It’s like being fully satisfied with something you didn’t even know you needed.

“That’s it?” he asks as you throw your head back in the mirror, eyes closed and teeth digging into your bottom lip. “Does it feel good to you like this? Baby likes a little pain, yeah?”

You blush, unable to think about it too much without feeling like you could go straight to the hospice.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you for an answer. Instead, firmly breaching your tremble hole, he thrusts and thrusts and gasps heated and wetly into your ear, pressing deeper until he’s halfway in. And then he stops. The fingers of one hand close loosely on the bruised skin of your throat and you freeze, fearing for a moment that he’s going to choke you once more — this time while impaling you on his thick cock. But as the seconds stretch by without such a thing happening, you begin to notice something else. Those fingers; cruel, bloody fingers, responsible for the deaths of many people, are unsteady on your flesh.

He’s trembling.

The elongated digits are gripping your flesh with no real pressure, just a nice, soft collar around your throat, but the way they’re trembling is noticeable even through the barrier of the glove.

You open your eyes to a slit, knowing you can’t see him properly with the way his mouth remains pressed against your ear, breathing heavily and heatedly. And there’s no logical explanation as to why such an action catches you so off guard. But feeling this killer, this horrible, terrifying man who is obviously incapable of a basic level of respect for human life, gasp and tremble at being inside you, makes you gasp in response. Your insides clench involuntarily and more moisture coats the heavy shaft in your pussy, making it easier for him to pass through.

Then, slowly, he moves his other palm up to squeeze your breast over the fabric of your costume before he begins to pump the rest of his length inside you.

“Mmm…that’s it,” he murmurs, “f-fuck, you feel so good, so good.”

Again, you say nothing, burying your embarrassing moans and your tears as best you can — both from pleasure and humiliation. The man is so disturbingly warm curled up against you, his body broad and tall and so firm, dark clothing heavy but soft over his defined stomach that flexes against you with each thrust - the mask poking your flesh every now and then as his breath hitches in your ear. You want to cry out in fear as much as you want to scream in pleasure.

It’s a bitter kind of betrayal the way your body seems to want to decide the game for you; your quivering pussy giving in, against all logic and reason, to accept the forced intrusion, allowing the rest of his cock to pass inside your silky walls. You lose the battle almost immediately after that, gasping at the feel of every inch of his thick member firmly seated inside you, breathless at what he’s daring to do to you. Worse than if he had broken into the bathroom to murder you, you’d say. Because here, he’s not just violently attacking you and taking your right to life, without you being able to fight back. Here he’s making you submit to him; making you want to surrender to the overwhelming sensations that he brutally rips from your body - like a priest exorcising a poor possessed soul. He humiliated you in the worst possible way and he knows it.

And you find yourself less and less concerned about it.

You tilt your head to the side - and now there is no more internal restraint to prevent your moans.

“Please…aaah…”

“That’s it, princess,” he chuckles, as if he senses you’re giving in.

The time he stays still inside you doesn’t last long, just the few seconds long enough for you to feel the heat and enlargement of his cock, the thick veins pulsing as he bounces between your walls. It’s as if the pain has pierced you beyond anything else, pierced you like a sharp bolt of lightning that has fried your nerves until it’s left behind nothing but a sense of…overwhelming fullness. You’re completely boneless, trapped between his strong body and the mirror, your hands clenched loosely in the dark fabric of his robe. It’s a sensory experience that quickly becomes too much, but not enough.

When he pulls his hips back you experience a confused moment of panic, frustrated as you feel him pull away from you to leave your pussy achingly empty. There’s no time to question the insanity of your thoughts though.

His fingers are still shaking as he pulls away from you, releasing your throat to tangle them deep into the roots of your hair as a scream is forced like a punch from your lungs when, in a single strong thrust, he is fully sheathed within your quivering insides once more.

Between the iron grip on your hair and his hand gripping your breast like a vise, all you can do is grip his robe tighter as he ravages you. His teeth are where your neck meets your shoulder with a sharp bite, pulling away to thrust inside you in another violent thrust, your hole stretched and more vulnerable than ever. Your frantic brain is making you all too aware of every little sensation racking your body. The way his thick cock opens you, how each thrust makes your smaller body tremble, leaving you breathless as you dig your nails into the soft fabric of his robe to try and hold on through the punishing rhythm of his hips. When this night is over, and assuming you’re still alive, you know you’ll be bruised and sore everywhere, from your hips and ass to your breasts and throat. In your mind and in your soul. Right now, you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this. If you’d ever want to.

"S-stop..." You don't know why the words are coming out of your mouth; not only would they be useless to the man, but they also carry no real force behind them. You don't even know if you really want him to stop. It feels more like an instinctive reaction than what your brain deems to be the right thing to do. "I - I'm going to scream."

He laughs, recognizing your empty threat for what it is, but your stomach still twists when he grips your hair to pull your face towards his.

"Oh, you promise? Please do it, little girl."

Out of spite, you close your mouth, but that only seems to incite him. With an amused chuckle and one last pinch to your nipple, he releases your breast to grab both of your thighs. His hands are large on your flesh while his fingers bruise the soft skin even more.

"Such a stubborn little thing. We can't have any of that, can we, sweetie?"

His hands curl under your ass and, after a greedy squeeze, he’s lifting you up, not letting his cock slip out of your pussy for even half a moment before he slams you against the wall. Your spine arches and your bones rattle from the nothing short of violent impact, but he doesn’t care, writhing and pulsing inside you, undeniably stimulated by your pain - and oh god, this definitely shouldn’t feel as fucking good as it does.

It barely takes a second before he’s holding you steady and still by your thighs before he starts ramming his wet cock in and out of you again, like a machine, so hard that each thrust of his hips makes your back hit the wall.

In this position you’re forced to wrap your arms behind his neck for safety, feeling his hands close on the inner curve below your knee to spread your legs even wider, his body so intimately pressed against yours that it’s almost unsettling. Especially after so long without any human contact like this. You feel, to say the least, overwhelmed by such a sudden onslaught of intimacy.

You tense when he thrusts in a particularly dirty way, grinning like hell when you hiccup with a moan. He repeats the movement out of pure tease, his mask askew but turned toward you, the mocking line of his lips right next to yours.

“Mine,” he whispers, “My princess, my little pet, my cute little toy.”

His thrusts become not only hard but fast as well, and you can hear each time his body hits yours with a wet slap, each withdrawal slick and sticky.

“Please, w-why are you doing this? Why me?” It’s all you can manage to ask, your head growing increasingly confused, your pussy growing wetter.

He slows his movements to a blessedly slower grind, humming dramatically as he pretends to ponder your question.

“Why you?”

In an abrupt movement that you wouldn't have expected in a million years, he lets go of one of your thighs and abruptly rips the mask off his face, with such ease that you initially don't understand what it means. But then, with finality and violence, the weight of reality falls upon you.

He took off the mask.

He let you see his face.

The face of a murderer wanted by the police.

You were already dead. Yes, if such a fate was uncertain before, it certainly isn't anymore.

The shock of the revelation is so absolute that it takes a few seconds for you to actually focus on his face. But slowly, each individual feature seems to stick to your mush brain.

First you are greeted with that shock of long platinum blonde hair, tied in a loose bun, a few strands stuck to the sweaty skin of his forehead and the sides of his face.

The hair alone would be enough for you to easily recognize him.

But then your gaze falls to those eyes.

Eye, actually. A single, functional one, a stormy blue — enigmatic and dark as the turbulent waters of the farthest reaches of the ocean. The other, or where the other should be, is occupied by some kind of ocular prosthesis of a blue hue that could not be less like his good eye — a vivid, electric blue, like a rare, brilliant sapphire stone.

It is the first time you have seen him like this, so exposed. Always hidden by a pair of sunglasses or, failing that, a surgical eye patch. The pale skin of the man’s face would be flawless, were it not for the long, jagged scar that cuts across his cheekbone to above the line of his damaged eye.

The purple hues of the bathroom highlight all his sharp angles and an elegant appearance that is characteristic of the aristocratic genes of someone so well born.

Yes, you know this man.

Aemond Targaryen.

A college guy. Normal, as far as you can tell. Or as normal as someone privileged and born with a silver spoon in their mouth could be. Yes, he was introverted, arrogant even with his silent and mysterious attitude, as if everyone was beneath him. The few times he was pushed to enter a conversation or any other social interaction (most often by his own brother) his comments were imbued with a polite acidity that is totally unique to someone with class, or with discreet but effective jabs that carried a humor considered, at least, questionable.

Aemond constantly balanced on the fine line between cool elegance and petulant irreverence, which generated controversial opinions about him among the students. To you, he was intriguing. Someone you quietly admired, offering polite greetings and a sincere smile when your paths crossed.

Yes, you knew him - as did the entire student body knows him. The Targaryens were obscenely wealthy, widely recognized for carrying an exorbitant legacy not only of family polemics, but also of successful generations, all in the field of technology and communication.

And yes, Aemond Targaryen was someone seriously conflicted, with his taciturn and enigmatic aura.

But a serial killer? That would be impossible.

And yet he was here, smelling of leather and sandalwood - as well as blood and death, wet crimson stains on his dark robes, forcing you to the most terrifying and controversial act of your entire life.

The dawning horror of the notion that the killer on the loose could be someone you know, someone who was present in your daily life, who attended the same classes as you and yet, who you never even dreamed of suspecting, seems to want to suffocate you momentarily.

“I see you around campus. You know, some wise ones tend to avoid me whenever possible, and then there are those pathetic rats who try to get close out of some specific interest in what my clown family can offer. But you? You’re always kind. Even with your mysterious and solitary attitude, you’re still so stupidly kind to me. It’s ridiculous, princess, but also so cute.” He’s pleased by the utter shock on your face, grinning evilly as he shoots his hand out and wraps both forearms around the inside of your knees, his cock thrusting deeper into your pussy, leaning in menacingly until his teeth are grazing your ear.

“You’re all I can think about, baby. You’ve invaded my mind, my body, my life. You’ve fucking ruined me.” He speaks directly into your ear, a harsh whisper that makes you gasp and shiver despite the crushing weight of the discovery still fresh in your mind.

“It’s only fair that I ruin you too, right?”

You glow at the intimacy of his words, incandescent with the blush spreading across your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone.

“You...oh, fuck...” Your accusatory words to him die on your tongue as one particular thrust hits a spot inside you that has you curling the toes in response. Little gasps escape your lips as he hits the same spot over and over, your eyes filled with revulsion and desire beginning to soften with an inevitable flutter of the lashes. 

 “That’s right, just take it, baby.” He sighs with a smile, kissing your jaw as you tilt your head back. His voice is like molasses; soft but rough around the edges — sweet but dark with the huskiness of his lust. It’s getting harder for you to control this feeling now. You feel your legs tighten, instinctively trying to wrap yourself around his waist tighter. A hand rising from his broad shoulder to tangle in the platinum strands of hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting an approving grunt from the man. He watches you with awe and a hooded gaze as you give in to that feeling of helplessness once again.

“You feel so warm and wet, dripping all over that pretty pussy, drooling on my cock like that…you’ve been just as desperate as I have, umm? So lonely…you’ll never be lonely again, princess,” he promises hotly, groping his way up your thighs until he grabs your ass, thrusting slowly, deeply, brushing against your cervix each time.

“I’m going to fuck your ass like that someday.” He says casually with a sly smile as his fingertips slide along the crack of your ass, thrusting his cock into your pussy harder to show you what he means, making your breath shallow and your eyes widen. “I think I’ll do that next time indeed. Fill every tight little hole in your body. Mark every inch of your skin as mine.” 

“Oh, God -” You feel tears forming in your eyes and streaming down your cheeks as you squeeze them shut, shaking as he teases you with wicked words, his hands coming up to grip either side of your waist. “Stop, please.”

“Oh no, baby, I’m not stopping. Not now and not ever. I’m going to claim that body in every damn way I can. With my cock, my fingers, my tongue.” You moan and pull away from him, your cheeks red and wet, shaking your head in a mumbled protest that’s too weak to be taken seriously. There’s more pleasure on your face than fear. He chuckles. “Do you like that? Do you like the idea of ​​my tongue in that sweet pussy?”

Before you can think to deny it, his mouth crashes down on yours, rough and brutal, hungry. There’s blood on your tongue, you notice, the cut reopened in his greed, the taste ferrous and acrid in your mouth as his tongue slides inside — his, maybe, or yours, or both, you don’t know.

As quickly as it begins, it ends. Aemond pulls back enough to brush his lips against yours, sharing quick, wet breaths.

“Oh yes, you do. You love knowing that I want to lick that pussy until you come, once, twice, three times — until you squeal and beg me to stop. But I won’t. I’ll make you come as many times as I want, as many times as your body can take. And even then, even if you pass out from exhaustion, I’ll fuck you. Like a beautiful little sex doll.”

Amidst the sensual humiliation of his wanton words, you feel your back scraping against the wall; up and down, over and over. The grip of your fingers in his hair tightens and he growls in his throat, palming your ass to move it with more fervor. He holds his own body still, using only the strength of his arms hooked in the crook of your knees and his hands on your waist to move you up and down his cock.

His face, though it still manages to hold that cold, wicked smirk, is smudged with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of the nose, the rest of his pale skin glistens slightly with sweat, and his good eye is dark with desire — the pupil so wide it almost completely overpowers the blue of his iris. And he’s beautiful like that; even with the prosthetic eye and the frightening scar. Beautiful and ethereal, completely belying his sick personality and unforgivable sins.

Through parted lips he gasps with effort and it takes a moment, but when he pushes you up again, your face completely implodes into flames as you realize he’s using you to masturbate. He’s doing exactly what he said he would, using you like a sex doll, a flashlight clenched around his cock.

His thrusting becomes faster and rougher as he grips your waist tighter between his broad palms, dragging your pussy down his cock with short strokes. Your own breaths shorten, becoming ragged sobs each time the fabric of his robe rubs against your sensitive clit. When he’s basically grinding your pussy against him, undulating your hips in a hurried back and forth, he leans down to press the forehead to yours. His heavy, cold gaze stays locked on yours through each drag. 

“That’s it. That’s it. Look at me. You’re so tight, so good. Keep looking at me. Good girl.” He punctuates each word with breathless slowness. Each guided movement of your hips is intentionally placed — rubbing your walls against his thick cock while simultaneously stimulating your clit against the mound of fabric of his tunic in a way he knows will send you over the edge.

Despite the order, your eyes grow heavy and fluttery, beginning to roll back as the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tense in preparation for the inevitable climax. That scary and wonderful cliff that taunts you in a messy way, approaching faster than you can understand.

A hard slap on your cheek brings you back.

“What did I just say, princess?” he growls, his voice rough with the effort of holding back his own desires. And your cheek stings where he’s hit you, glowing an even deeper shade of red, but you barely give it half a second’s attention — not when he’s looking at you like this; all breathless, sweaty lines and smoldering gaze.

“Keep your fucking eyes on me.” He releases your jaw with a warning jerk, sliding his hand down through your wet mess to find your swollen clit and circle the bud with his thumb, his other hand still tight around your waist. His body grinds into yours, flattening you against his lean muscles and the wall, slamming his hips into yours without pause.

You take a deep, shaky breath.

Your boots cross behind his back, skirt swinging at his waist with each thrust. And yet you do your best to hold Aemond’s obsessive gaze – unable to even name the intensity of the emotion swirling within you. The muscles in your thighs now tremble visibly, clenching tightly around his body in your impending release.

“Aemond – I need, oh, I can't…” You whisper, barely realizing what comes out of your mouth, a broken moan escaping along with the jumbled words, your entire body twitching under the expert assault of his thumb on your clit and his quick, relentless thrusts. You were close. So close. Balancing precariously right on the edge. And he knew it too. 

“That’s it, say my fucking name as you cum for me. Come on, do it now little girl.”

It happens quickly after that, relentlessly, your eyes trying to close without your permission, but you are obedient and keep them half-lidded as you stare at Aemond, a choked cry finally escaping your throat. 

“Aemond!”

With a determined growl, sweat dripping down his temples, he thrusts into you harder and harder until the tight coil snaps. Shockwaves of electric pleasure overwhelm you, forcing all the air from your lungs in a messy gasp. You shake as you come, clenching the fist against your attacker’s chest, nails digging into the roots of his silver hair, trying to ignore the stinging taste of shame as you find purchase in his body. 

“Look at me. Look at me, baby.” He pushes his forehead against yours, sending you a sly, proud smile as your eyes flutter and water with the effort of keeping them open through the climax. His pace quickens with the excitement of seeing your drunken gaze and flushed face.

His own release washes over him like the purest rush of insanity; brows furrowed as if he’s in pain, lips parted in a hoarse groan that raises every little hair on your body. His warm cum fills you, bubbling at the tight rims of the ring of muscle where his cock stretches you. He stays buried inside as his balls empty, his head finally tilting back and breaking intense eye contact as his lips release another long, satisfied groan.

When it’s all over, he slowly leans down to touch your foreheads once more, and you feel an overwhelming, incoherent wave of satisfaction when notice the muscles in his arms and fingers trembling where they touch your skin. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs between labored breaths. “All mine.”

He babbles possessively, rolling his hips into you to prolong the intimacy, even as you feel him softening discreetly within your walls.

“I’ll burn the world for you, I’ll do anything to keep your eyes on me like this. I’ll kill as many as it takes to have you by my side.” His voice, husky and haunting, makes you shiver with horror — with heat.

You don’t think he needs your involvement in the story to fulfill the last part of his dark promise. Not with the previous list of confirmed murders or the blood that stains his clothes tonight. That stains your costume now too. But his words still send a swarm of butterflies dancing in your stomach and, not for the first time, you find yourself questioning the integrity of your mental health.

He’s smiling at your flushed, uncomfortable features, swollen lips brushing against yours playfully as he catches the breath to say something else that will surely upset you deeply. Before he can, however, his broad body freezes against yours, whatever he was about to say abruptly dying on his tongue.

Like a tense and intriguing suspense, the two of you are slowly bathed in the garish red and blue lights that filter through the small bathroom window, overshadowing the soft purple lighting from before.

The police.

Just as the realization sets in, the sound of sirens is heard; loud and distinctive. And it is then, and only then, that you notice that there are no more sounds of music coming from downstairs.

When had it stopped?

Relief is the first thing you feel. Hope and security flicker in your chest until a new wave of tears blurs your vision. But the feeling quickly withers before another realization. The police, along with your college friends, were minutes away from finding out where and who you had been all this time. They would find Aemond, it was true. They would finally arrest the killer known as Ghostface. But they would also find you. You, abused, raped and humiliated.

God, could they deduce just by looking at you that, at some point during this violation, you had started to want this?

Your jaw is gripped by his firm fingers, making your wide, wet eyes focus on the man in front of you. He looks at you with such intensity, serious and analytical, and in that moment you are sure that he knows exactly what you are thinking.

“I know where every single one of your friends lives, what every single one of them does during the day — every damn minute of their activities is recorded for me,” he whispers slowly, sinking each word into your overworked brain to make sure you understand. “The same goes for your family members. I know where they live, who they are, and what they do. Dare to open your pretty little mouth to anyone about me and you’ll get one of their heads every time you open your dorm room door in the morning. I’ll even do the favor of gift wrapping it for you, baby.”

Your stomach lurches with sudden nausea, all the color draining from your face at the threat you know he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if need be.

“I truly hope you won’t betray my trust, love. Like I said before, I don’t want to kill you.” He smooths his knuckles down your tear-stained cheek, softening his tone to something softer and gentler — yet equally terrifying. “But I’ll do it to someone you care about without a second thought. So don’t test me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he seals his lips on yours. Just a light, wet touch, more an intimate exchange of heated breaths than a kiss. With an approving grunt when you sigh and surrender to his touch, he pulls away.

Your shaky, weak legs give way as he leaves your body, and you slide down the wall in a confused, weeping heap until you’re sitting on the tiled bathroom floor.

Hovering above you, Aemond tucks his penis into the pants and fastens his belt, straightening the robes with a perfectly neutral expression and calm manner, as if at this very moment the cops aren’t searching the frat house for him. Long fingers casually grip the mask lying on the counter, giving you one last intense, appraising look, licking his lips slyly before covering his face.

That ghost mask is back then, cold and frightening, pulling the hood up over his head before bending down and holding the bloody kitchen knife in the palm of his hand. Black boots click on the tile floor as he turns back to you and heads for the door, casting a glance over his shoulder as he places hand on the doorknob.

“This won’t be the last time, princess. I’ll come back for you.” His voice is dark and muffled by the mask, sounding more like a threat to your life than a lover’s promise, especially now that he’s back in his ghostly, cruel persona. “Until then, try not to miss me too much, and of course, be on your best behavior.”

He leaves as disturbingly as he came, with a dark swish of his cloak and an amused chuckle, closing the door with a teasing gentleness — as if he’s trying not to scare you. You might even buy his act, if it weren't for all the psychological terror he's inflicted on you so far.

And then you find yourself alone in the bathroom once again, with nothing but your own shame and accusatory thoughts.

And that's exactly how the cops find you a few minutes later. Sitting on the tile floor, pale as death, your Sailor Mars costume stained with blood and throat marked from the cruel grip of your attacker's fingers. Your cheek still stings from the slap he gave you.

You think you can hide the finger marks on your thighs by deliberately tucking the legs in, taking the opportunity to keep the messy puddle of cum out of sight of the lawmen. But one of them still wraps his jacket around you in a gesture of solidarity as he leads you out, reciting kind words that, despite their intention, do nothing to actually calm you.

“Oh, thank God!”

You stagger back at the sudden hug Mako gives you as you exit the house, crossing the area marked off by yellow police tape. The officer next to you clucks his tongue in disapproval, but steps aside to offer the two of you some privacy.

“Someone called the police when they found the bodies on the next street. It all happened so fast. The party was going on and then everything turned into absolute chaos and I couldn’t find you anywhere!” She babbles quickly as pulls away from the hug, looking you up and down with her puffy, red eyes, her hands shaking where they are — clenched tightly on the arms of the police jacket you’re wearing, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. “W-when they said that you could be upstairs with him…I-I thought…fuck…I really thought—”

“I know. But I’m here now. And I’m fine.” You cut her off, wiping away your own tears as you try to give her a very unconvincing smile. Predictably, she doesn’t buy your lie, but doesn’t press it either.

“They couldn’t catch him, pumpkin…” she says slowly after a moment of silence, her face contorted in pain for you. “By the time they got upstairs, he’d already escaped. I'm sorry."

You want to tell her that you know that, you were there when he fled before could be caught. Before you can, however, the officer from before is back - this time accompanied by another, a tall, tired-looking man with a gray beard. The sheriff, you assume.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions, miss." The older man grunts, looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else but here.

"She does, actually. Can't you see how she looks?!" Mako is quick to respond, leaning forward to position herself in front of you like a protective barrier. The officers look at her like she's a little girl throwing a tantrum, nothing but tired indifference on their faces.

"It's okay, Mako. I got it." You try to calm the situation, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently guide her to the side. "I'd rather do it now, actually. I just want to put this all behind me as soon as possible."

It's impossible to put this behind, but you don't say that part.

Mako holds your gaze for a few seconds, keeping such a watchful, worried glint in every expression on your face that, for a minute, you fear she might know exactly everything that happened just by that look. When she sighs and steps aside in reluctant surrender, you almost sigh along with her.

"Okay. But I won't go far, I'll be waiting for you right there."

You mumble an 'mkay' and she reluctantly walks away, not before casting a sharp glance at the two officers standing in the same position near you - who promptly ignore her silent attempt at a threat. When she finally walks away, you sigh, staring at the badge on the older man's chest for a few seconds as you prepare to craft a narrative of the facts that doesn't reveal anything about the killer's identity.

"Alright. What would you like to know, Sheriff Myers?"

Fortunately, the police in your town have never been the most diligent or perceptive, and while they may ask a few important questions here and there, they generally remain naturally ignorant to some confusing gaps in your version of events. You are careful to avoid saying anything about the sexual assault you suffered, opting to tell them only about the physical violence that they have inevitably noticed by now; the marks on your neck, wrists and the red slap on your cheek.

They accept your half-truths so easily that you would be offended if that wasn't exactly the goal. In the end, all that matters to them is the answer to one question:

"Did you get a look at his face? Skin color, hair, eyes... anything that might help us identify this fucker once and for all?"

And in that moment you think of Mako, her cheerful smile and irreverent attitude. You think of your parents, so safe and oblivious in your hometown. You think of the faces of every your family member, friend and colleague who could suffer an agonizing death at the hands of the killer if you dared to answer the wrong way.

"N-no, sir. I'm sorry, but no, I didn't see anything. He was completely covered the whole time, with gloves and a mask." You huddle deeper into the thick jacket over your shoulders, your arms wrapped around yourself.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, clearly disappointed at once again running in circles, but he doesn't press you on it. And after a few other less important questions, they both say goodbye with a standard guarantee of protection that you don't trust for a second.

They've barely moved away from you when your phone vibrates in the pocket with the warning of a new notification. After glancing over your shoulder in alarm to see if anyone was watching, you feel the heart race before you even reach for it, fingers already shaking with nervous anticipation, knowing exactly who the notification is from. With a shaky click of your thumb on the now mostly cracked and destroyed screen, the thing lights up for you:

--

Notification Center

2:23am - Unknown number

"Well done, little girl. You made me proud (and a little horny, I must admit) with all those pathetic little lies to the authorities. Keep being a good girl and everyone you care about will be safe. Scout's word.

We'll meet again sooner than you think.

A.T."

--

[utilitycaster]

i am so curious what you think about fearne as a character, especially in the full context of this campaign, and how she ranks in terms of contributing good storytelling. she was consistently my least favorite (ie., lovely and entertaining to watch, but not personally interesting or dimensional in a way that made me care, and more often than not, frustratingly avoidant of plot or depth) and i'm wondering how much you'd relate to that. i'm interested in hearing an alternate perspective! this is an invitation for as much of your thoughts as you have them, because i love reading your posts and meta. have a great day <3

Hey anon, thank you!

I find myself in an awkward place here because I do like Fearne for a couple reasons, and I think a major one is because I think Ashley is one of the only people at the table who actually explored, in-character, that Fearne was an indecisive person who was terrified of making the wrong choices (notably during both the aftermath of the first Otohan fight, and during the whole course of Shardgate). Like, Fearne's disconnect at times from the world, and moments of self-centeredness, and indecision all felt very true to Ashley's original concept both in EXU Prime and the general concept of fey morality. I also think that in a campaign with a number of fraught familial relationships that were underserved, Fearne's was, while still not given the time I wish it had been, one of the strongest. Fearne deciding, after meeting her missing parents, that she wasn't sure if she liked them felt very earned and true, and it felt like she put in the work when she later spoke to them during the party's time resting in the Feywild.

I also give Fearne something of a pass because I think she was put in perhaps the least enviable spot of all this campaign, and that's saying something. While I think pretty much every character would have been much, much better had we focused more on their backstory and exploring and resolving that, Ashley's intended darker fairytale concept was just...abandoned. Like we got Ligament Manor and Morri, and they were great! But there was no plot for her in the feywild other than "your parents are caught up in this moon thing, and your birth father is also caught up in this moon thing". The first part came up very early and got quickly overshadowed by the rest of the whole Bassuras pile-up, and the second part came out right before the Ruidus scouting mission and was perhaps one of the worst victims of the late campaign breakneck pacing. Honestly, a lot of the feywild stuff felt oddly insubstantial - we know that breaking the fey key apparently did something, and that breaking up the meeting in Pravenier prevented Fey allies from attacking Vox Machina at the key in the end (though it's hard to say exactly what that would have entailed), but like...was the Seelie Court working in opposition? Were there any extraplanar allies in the Accord? Was the Feywild at risk here, as Ollie believed it to be? Because it never entered into Bells Hells' considerations! All the Feywild plot threads just went nowhere. Even their greatest fey ally, Ira, was far more motivated by his own dislike of Ludinus than any loyalty to Fearne; the party didn't really need to cultivate him as an ally, he just showed up.

And then, of course, there's the fact that Fearne was a Ruidusborn, but she wasn't THE Ruidusborn, she wasn't exaltant, that was Imogen - and the cool thing she did get, the spark of Rau'shan, was a great moment but was, like Ashton's titan abilities, mechanical and some cool scenes only but not relevant to Predathos in a meaningful way any more so than like, Chetney's ability to turn into a wolf was. I don't even think Ashley was being particularly indecisive, or rather, the Zathuda and Yu "should we kill them or no" scenes were excruciating in the lack of decision, but I feel that the problem was she was given absolutely nothing to fucking work with and that's not her fault. I think it's a testament to Ashley's ability as an actor that I do feel she had depth and even a little character development because she was essentially pushed into a thankless second fiddle role. When I think of the people who actually made an effort to do small solo scenes or seek other people out, Fearne praying to the Wildmother or Raven Queen and pickpocketing scenes stand out as bright spots.

So I think it's valid to be frustrated or not vibe, but I think it's entirely a DM-ing problem. This campaign was really not made to accommodate Fearne's concept.

[drdemonprince]

I have a situation I’d like your input on if you’re interested. My (cis) gf did a radio interview, it was about accessibility for disabled people for an upcoming event. But that’s not super important. She referred to me (I have a small part in the project) as male, or as a man I can’t remember the exact wording she used. But basically because I’m trans some of the “elders” in our community heard about it and some got pissed and said it was disrespectful to not acknowledge trans, especially because of how hard they worked for visibility etc. They seem to think it was offensive towards me. But the thing is, I love that she always refers to me as a man/her man etc. She’s never seen me as trans, as in any different from cis men and I love her for that. Obviously she understands the struggles I went through but we got together well after I started transitioning so to her I’ve only ever been a man. Is it wrong to like this? I’ve been made to feel like I’ve/shes betrayed the community or something. I really don’t care how other people identify, I guess I thought that was the whole fucking point. Like I know I’m trans, I’m not deluded. But I love that she refers to me as a man. It was such a weird thing to blow up like that. But she’s also outspoken on a lot of things that people don’t like so I feel like this is being used against her in disproportionate way.

the people hassling you and your girlfriend are in the wrong and way out of line. nobody fuckin wants to regard trans men as actual men and it is so fucking sickening. it says a lot about their own latently bioessentialist views. they especially shouldnt be telling her and you how you ought to identify. fuckin bullshit on their part

[enden-agolor]

I want to reach out to you. I have screenshots from a private discord server where a bunch of people have been making fun of you over the most outrageous things.

These are people who follow you and turn around and instantly disrespect you.

Firstly, they make really horrible comments about your age. That you're an adult in the fandom who is chornically online. Basically saying you shouldn't be here. "LIKE UR ALMOST IN YOUR 30s"

Next, they talked about how they all went into a call and made fun of your writing. Going on to say you mischaracterize characters even though you're like one of the few who actually gets them right. Saying you twinkify Lukas?? 😭

And the there's a quote. "They are hateful towards people if their ship ideologies match theirs." Their like main reason for talking shit is because you're vocal about ships you don't like or because you block people who post that stuff. Saying shit like "ur an adult." basically grow up or something.

I just sat there with my jaw dropped reading their comments thinking about how fucking braindead these people are. I needed you to know this because I don't AT ALL see what they see in you. I'm sorry man.

Huh. Interesting.

Firstly, I don't really know what to say when it comes to my age. I always felt really anxious of revealing it for this very reason, but I felt bad not being honest about it?? Like, it felt wrong not being open about my age. To be honest, I don't really have much else going for me in my life that makes me happy outside of MCSM and other things. My dog was mauled to death last year, I don't really have family anymore, and I'm living with health issues. I can understand why people might be put off by my age, but I don't know man. I have very few things that make me happy, and MCSM is one of them. Chronically online? Ehh, I mean I work a full time job and have a life completely beyond fandom stuff. I go on hikes, travel, and visit friends. I think it's safe to say I'm not really chronically online.

As for making fun of my writing in call? I mean, that's an extremely low thing for a person to do, so if I'm being quite honest, these people are probably nothing I should worry about anyways. They're probably kids. I don't expect everyone to like my writing. I don't expect everyone to like my art. I don't expect everyone to like me. I'm extremely fortunate I have the following I do, but that goes without saying that I will have plenty of people who dislike me. It's to be expected from a well-known artist, if I even am that. I only just made it to 3k here on tumblr.

I really don't like a lot of attention for that reason. I'm not a confrontational person, and I don't want to engage in any fandom drama. I'm not really afraid to at least state some of my opinions? Which I feel like no one should be forced to withhold no matter their following.

Also saying I make Lukas twinky is funny as hell I'm ngl. I have always made sure to implement his strengths and weaknesses. My Lukas has always been more of like a twunk but honestly none of this really matters anyways because it all really depends on the persons own view on the character! If they don't like my version of him, that's fine. If they want buff chad Lukas, go get 'em.

That kind of leads to your next comment. I have NO idea where the 'hateful towards other peoples ideologies' comes from (I'm assuming you meant doesn't match theirs). I am really respectful of other peoples headcanons. If I see one I don't like, guess what, I ignore it like a normal person! Yes, I block people who post things I don't want to see. Does me being an adult mean I need to just sit there and take it when I see something I don't like? Nah man. Just because I make stuff, doesn't mean I'm not consuming content either.

No, I don't like the "toxic yaoi/toxic yuri" ships. My question is, how is that bad? Am I actually hurting you people by disliking these things and putting boundaries up so I don't have to see them? I may be an adult, but we adults still feel things. I don't like toxic ships for a reason. I don't like it /for a reason/. I was vocal in the past about not liking these ships BECAUSE I kept getting asks about them. I wanted to put up that boundary. That is something everyone should feel comfortable doing.

All in all, it's kind of just whatever? These things happen. I'm allowed to dislike what I want, just as much as you are allowed to as well, even if that thing is me. I'm not hurt when people hate me. I make the content I make for the audience who enjoys it. That's it!

I'd like to peacefully request to see the screenshots, so I at least know who these people are. Just know I have no plans to confront them.

Other than that. Uhhhhhh.

Back to Funny Minecraft Man posting

[melercies]

pairing(s): thanos x (gender-neutral) reader (squid game + post-squid game)

warning(s): mature/suggestive themes & parts, deaths (thanos & reader separately), violence/threats, psychological manipulation, my best interpretation of the character and lowercase usage intended.

author's note: THANOS HEADCANONS, i love him so much, it's not even funny anymore along with nam-gyu. correction. love and hate them. that's one thing for sure. please let me know if i missed anything! likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated!

when it comes to thanos, love isn't gentle. it’s fire and chaos, something hungry and relentless. he doesn’t do soft confessions or sweet nothings. love, for him, is about claiming—staking his place in your life so deeply that you can’t imagine a world without him in it.

his version of affection is intense, overwhelming, and sometimes, suffocating. he likes knowing that you’re his, that when you look around the dormitory filled with desperate, terrified people, you don’t see safety in anyone else but him.

he thrives in the chaos of the games. he's loud, unpredictable, and somehow, dangerously charming—always knowing how to manipulate people into doing what he wants. but when it comes to you? there’s an unsettling sincerity beneath all his usual antics. you’re not just another pawn to him. you’re something he refuses to lose.

he makes sure you stick by his side. “you’re safer with me,” he’d say, slinging an arm around your shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel his grip. “ain’t no one touching you when i’m around.”

if someone so much as looks at you wrong, he makes sure they regret it. he plays it off like a joke, but there’s a deadly edge to his words. “oh, don’t worry about them. they won’t be a problem anymore.” and sure enough, they don’t make it past the next round or you see them keeping their distance.

he steals extra food for you—sometimes by force, sometimes by sheer charisma. but he won’t just hand it over for free. he likes watching you work for it or he expects something from you in return. “c’mon, babe, say please,” he teases, dangling a piece of bread in front of your lips. if you refuse, he shrugs and takes a bite himself, grinning. “suit yourself.”

thanos dangles the piece of bread just out of your reach, his smirk wide and infuriating. "y'know," he drawls, tapping it against his chin like he's thinking, "i was just gonna ask for a little 'please,' but now i think i want something a little sweeter."

you narrow your eyes. "screw you."

he chuckles, all amusement and mischief, before leaning in, his voice dropping to a murmur. "tempting, babe, but let’s start smaller." his eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up. "how ‘bout a kiss?"

your stomach twists—not just from hunger but from the way he’s looking at you, like he already knows your answer. you clench your fists. "not happening."

thanos gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like you wounded him. "oof. that one actually hurt." then, he clicks his tongue. "guess you don’t want the bread that bad, huh?"

you scowl as he pops a bite into his mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.

"fucking asshole," you mutter under your breath.

he grins. "c’mon. it’s just a little peck—what, afraid you’ll like it?"

you glare at him, refusing to take the bait and give the satisfaction. "i’d rather starve."

he hums, amused. "dramatic. I like that." then, with zero warning, he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, "but I think I’d like it better if you got on your knees and earned it."

your breath catches, and your face burns. "you’re disgusting!"

thanos barks out a laugh, tilting his head. "ohhh, sweetheart, if you think that’s bad, you should hear what I really wanna say." he pops the last of the bread into his mouth, licking his fingers before smirking. "mmm. that could’ve been yours."

you swear under your breath, turning to storm off, but before you can, he grabs your wrist, stopping you. his grin softens—just slightly. "relax, sweetheart. i’ll bring you something tomorrow." then, he leans in just enough to make your heart skip. "but you’re gonna have to make it worth my while."

and just like that, he releases you, strutting off, leaving you hot with frustration—and maybe something else that makes you question yourself.

nights in the sleeping quarters are tense. you never know when someone might try to take you out in your sleep. but thanos? he sleeps like a king. always somehow finding a way to make himself comfortable, stretching out like he owns the place. but you? he keeps you close. “wouldn’t want you wandering off,” he mutters, an arm draped lazily over your waist, pulling you in. “or worse, someone trying to snatch you up.”

he practically thrives off getting under your skin. when the stress of the games starts getting to you, he leans in, lips brushing against your ear. “relax, sweetheart. you’re wound up so tight,” he purrs. “you need me to help you unwind?”

and damn it, he knows exactly what he’s doing. the teasing, the touches, the way his eyes stay locked onto you like you’re the only thing worth looking at. it’s infuriating how much he enjoys watching you squirm under his gaze.

the air in the dormitory was thick with tension, bodies pressed into cramped spaces, the weight of survival hanging heavy over everyone's heads. but none of that matters—not when thanos has you cornered against the cold metal frame of your bunk, his arm braced beside your head, blocking any escape.

damn him.

he's too close, leaning in just enough that you can the warmth of his breath against your cheek. his fingers ghost along your wrist, barely touching, just enough to make you hyper-aware of every movement. his lips curl into that lazy smirk of his, like he already knows how this is going to play out.

"y’know," he murmurs, voice dropping just low enough that only you can hear, "you really don’t hide it well."

your brows furrow. "hide what?"

his eyes flick down to your lips for just a second before snapping back up to meet your gaze, sharp and calculating. "how much you like this."

your breath hitches.

he chuckles as he takes notice, the sound deep, teasing—like he’s enjoying this more than he should. of course he is. he lives for moments like these, where he can get under your skin, make you second-guess yourself. it’s a game to him. one he’s all too good at playing.

"you can act tough all you want," he muses, fingers trailing higher, skimming the inside of your wrist. his touch is light, barely there, but it still sends a shiver up your spine. his grin widens. he notices. "but I see right through you, sweetheart."

you glare, trying to push him back, but he doesn’t budge. if anything, he leans in even closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. his free hand skims down your waist, just slow enough to be deliberate, before stopping right at the hem of your uniform.

"you’re such a pain in the ass," you mutter, voice tighter than you’d like.

he laughs, tilting his head, fingers curling slightly against your hip. "yeah? and yet, you never stop running into me."

his tone is smug. it's infuriating. he’s enjoying this. the way you shift under his touch, the way your pulse jumps when his lips hover just near your ear—never quite touching, but just enough to make you want to close the distance yourself.

but that’s the game.

and just when you think he might actually push further, just when you’re bracing yourself for the inevitable—he pulls back. steps away like nothing happened, leaving you standing there, heat rising to your cheeks, pulse hammering in your ears.

"you should get some sleep," he muses, stretching his arms behind his head. his voice is casual, like he didn’t just toy with you, like he didn’t just leave you on edge. "big day tomorrow."

you exhale sharply, forcing yourself to glare, but it only makes his smirk widen as he turns back towards nam-gyu whose verbally fighting with se-mi as gyeong-su and min-su watch quietly.

bastard.

if you survive, but he doesn't? at first, it doesn't feel real. the games end, the money is in your hands, and yet, it feels hollow. you're supposed to feel free. instead, all you can think about is him.

thanos, with his wild energy and relentless teasing. thanos, who could make you laugh even when you were both inches from death. thanos, whose cocky grin never faltered—even when he should have been afraid. his absence follows you like a shadow.

you find yourself scanning through crowds, expecting to see that familiar smirk, or that effortless confidence that made him impossible to ignore. but he's not there. he never will be.

you still hear him sometimes. in the quiet moments. "c'mon, you know i'd make this more fun. don't tell me you're getting boring without me." you tell yourself it's just your imagination. your mind is just tricking you to believe he's still with you. just the lingering echos of someone who burned too brightly, too chaotically, to last. and yet, some part you doesn't want to let go.

an article of clothing, a shirt or jacket of his—is still in your closet. You don’t wear it, but you don’t get rid of it either. You tell yourself it’s just another piece of the past, but deep down, you know the truth. it's proof that, for a little while, he was real. that you were real.

and some nights, when the silence becomes unbearable, you slip it on and close your eyes.

if he survives, but you don't? at first, he laughs. a short, bitter sound emitting from his lips, like he's trying to convince himself that it's all just a bad joke once he hears your player number being announced or you're laying in front of him motionlessly. "nah, they're not gone. they're just screwing with me, right?"

but when no sarcastic response comes, no exasperated sigh, no teasing remark to fill the space or your presence showing up anywhere, the reality starts to sink in. and it burns.

thanos doesn't do grief. not the way most people do. he drinks too much. fights too much. spends money like it's an illusion—because, to him, it might as well be. the prize means nothing without you there to roll your eyes at his ridiculous spending habits or call him an idiot when he does something reckless.

your absence is a wound he refuses to acknowledge, but it festers beneath the surface. occasionally, he finds himself turning, expecting you to be there, leaning against the wall with that unimpressed look. but there's nothing. just the crushing weight of the silence.

if he had the chance to trade places with you? some nights, he thinks he would. but instead, he lives. because even if you're gone, he knows you wouldn't want him to waste it. and maybe, just maybe, living is his own twisted way of keeping you close.

he never talks about you. not to anyone. not even when he's alone. because if he does, it makes it real. and if it's real, then that means he lost. and thanos hates losing.

but when no one's around, when the liquor stops working and the noise in his head refuses to quiet down, he’ll pull out something of yours—something small, something insignificant, something only you would know the importance of.

and for a brief moment, he lets himself remember. then, just as quickly, he shoves it away. because memories don't change reality. and reality is that you're gone. and he's still here. alone.

[hurtmemoreplease]

Pokemon Types Rated by Fuckability

Normal: Most normal types are pretty fuckable, but like... c'mon, how many of them are gonna blow your mind? Snorlax? Arceus? Melotta? There's plenty of good lovers, but not many great ones. 7/10.

Fire: A collection of the most fuckable pokemon, arranged for your pleasure. From Cinderace to Arcanine to Volcarona to Magcargo, there's something for everyone. One point deducted because you will get burned somewhere sensitive. 9/10.

Water: There's just not that much to say about water. There's a few very good options, a few very bad ones, but mostly just a lot of boring ones. Honestly I'm taking two points off for the vaporeon memes. 3/10.

Electric: Some fantastic options for you in Zebstrika and Luxray, with added points if you're into electrostim play. If you liked getting trained with a shock collar, you should become an electric type's pet. I'm not sure how you're going to fuck an Electrode or a Magneton, though. 7/10.

Grass: Tsareena! Grovyle! Ogerpon! Tangrowth! Surely, Grass must be the most fuckable type of all, right? Yeah, actually. With vine whip, a plethora of status moves, and a variety of diverse body types (looking at you, Victreebel!), Grass tops the charts, whether you're looking for a vanilla, humanoid type, or a mind-bending experience by a creature that drugs you out of your mind and oh my god i'm just talking about HDG god damn it. 10/10. Sadly.

Ice: Already a small group of pokemon, ice types rate pretty low on the fuckability scale in general, even before accounting for the sheer unpleasantness of the cold. Saved by Froslass being willing and able to freeze you in ice, and, presumably, do things to your unmoving body. 1/10.

Fighting: Okay here's your next task; go to the nearest gym that offers a kickboxing class and start giving your number to everyone who walks out of it. Functionally the same experience as hooking up with a fighting-type. A good lay, but nothing special. 4/10

Poison: With pokemon like Salazzle, Tentacruel, and the Nidoran line, you might think that poison deserves a pretty high rating. Wrong! All of the most fuckable pokemon in the typing are dual-typed with another, more interesting type. They get a little credit for having Poison Fang and Poison Jab for people who are into intox play. 3/10.

Ground: Great Tusk, Mudsdale, Hippowdon... A great type if you like being overpowered and enveloped, but not too much else going for it, and not much variety. 5/10. Middle of the road.

Flying: Well. It's not BAD. But you're dealing with a lot of dual-typed pokemon. At least you've got the Forces of Nature, they're literally therians. 2/10.

Psychic: You do not fuck the psychic type pokemon. The psychic type pokemon fuck you. Every single one of them up to and including Wobbufett is capable of ruining sex with anyone else for you. 10/10. 15/10. I'm not being mind-controlled to write this, I promise. But, hypothetically, if I was, it would be a 20/10

Bug: Honestly, the main downside to the bug type is that they don't have ovipositors, as far as we know. We can still hope, though... There are plenty of misses in the bug type, but if you're into it then you'll find plenty to be happy with. Even if you're not into it, there's plenty that will give you a good time. 8/10.

Rock: Lycanrocs have been known to bite and convert unwitting trainers. Nihilego can take over minds. Geodude is a rock. Plenty of decent options in Rampardos, Terrakion, and Tyrantrum, but plenty of ??? options like Corsola. 8/10, surprisingly, but there are some real standouts carrying the typing. (Call me, Diancie!)

Ghost: A lot of overlap with the appeal of psychic-types, just worse at it. Some really strong standouts with Hisuian Typhlosion, Cofagrigus, and Spectrier, but also- wait, shit, Hisuian Zoroark is there. 9/10.

Dragon: I'm not entertaining this discussion. It's 10/10 or higher. Shut up. 30/10. Leave me alone. I'm strapping you to the belly of a Salamance. I'm calling a Goodra with a dinner bell. They're the most fuckable category and it's not even close. Latios, Latias, and Necrozma are the only Dragon/Psychic types, which is a relief, since if there was a non-legendary one then humanity would be their pets.

Dark: Honestly a lot more consistently fuckable than you'd think. Mightyena, Houndoom, Thievul, Liepard, Hoopa, Urshifu, Sableye, and so on and so on and so on. Can't justify anything less than a 10/10.

Steel: Steel type is mostly useful for making other types more attractive; it's a surefire way to make a dragon, or a fairy, or a psychic-type even more attractive. That said, there are a few good options within the metal typing; Melmetal, Skarmory, Corviknight, to name a few. Lots of points lost for being best as added spice, but points granted for having a few really strong contenders. 4/10

Fairy: I mean. Come on. It's like Dark, but you actually expected it this time. Fairy is filled with some of the most fuckable pokemon around. 10/10, it's just hotties all the way down.