#i already struggle enough with these compulsions

[hyperfixatinator]

(Batman & Robin 2011 #10)

When it comes to Tim and Damian, I don't think we talk about this issue enough. I'd even say this moment specifically is an important turning point in Tim and Damian's relationship, moreso for Damian.

Because imagine Damian's perspective up to this point. He, an assassin child who was trained to kill without discrimination, was brought into a family that spurned murderers with a passion. And then he was given a mantle that honored the Batclan's creed to never kill anyone.

How was a Robin whose past was already tainted with blood supposed to compete with a Robin who remained pure his whole life? No matter how much skill or loyalty Damian offered, Tim's innocence was a standard he could never reach.

But one day, Damian found out Tim's not as innocent as he seems. Tim too has struggled to maintain the Robin's creed. He too has had to fight the compulsion to kill, like Damian did.

And if Tim, despite his faltering sense of mercy in the past, is still worthy of the Robin mantle, then maybe Damian can be, too.

I think this is when Damian started to see Tim as less of an unfairly privileged obstacle, and more of a peer who's in a similar boat. And he needed Tim to see that in order for both of them to move forward as equals.

[ozymoron]

starting to think this website is bad for my mental health.....

[awearywritersworld]

my very soul demands you

sukuna x reader summary: you introduce sukuna to cuddling and romance novels. meanwhile, he's still struggling to make sense of his feelings for you, despite wanting to commit murder because another man had the nerve to touch your arm (which earns him a lecture from yuuji). w/c: 2.5k tags/warnings: enemies to lovers. angst to fluff. jealous!sukuna. aged up!yuuji. features yuuji x reader. cursing. banter. hopefully not too ooc for sukuna. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers. a/n: this could maybe be read as a stand alone, but it'd flow much better with the context of the previous two parts. lots of denial and begrudging softness from sukuna here. definitely more fluff than anything tho. this series has been fun to write, so thanks for reading<3 i appreciate reblogs or feedback! let me know if you'd like to be tagged in any additional parts. series masterlist // masterlist

when you crawl in between sukuna's legs and curl up against his chest, it's a foreign experience that makes his body stiffen.

he'd been with countless women during his lifetime, but while fucking is one thing, he never once found himself in a position that struck him as this... intimate.

"hold me," you whine as if you can sense his unfamiliarity with such matters.

he rolls his eyes, beginning to wonder if your habit of throwing orders at him is actually some sort of compulsive need. "didn't anyone ever teach you manners?"

despite his irritation, he acquiesces to your demand and once he envelops you in his arms, some of his rigidness dissipates.

you hum contentedly. "isn't that better?"

"it's tolerable," he asserts, his chest vibrating against your cheek.

"whatever you say." tangling your legs with his, you turn your attention back to the movie you've both been watching.

he doesn't understand this... tedious display of affection, nor does he particularly enjoy it... right?

and he only allows it because he can't rid his mind of the image of your tear stained face... right?

yeah, that has to be it. he figures he can endure this, given that he was the reason you were so upset earlier.

it goes without saying that he doesn't realize it when he begins to rub absentminded circles on your back.

and the way the warmth of your body forces his usually tense muscles to relax goes unacknowledged.

when the credits begin to roll, sukuna's wearing an expression of unimpressed disinterest. "that's seriously how it ends?"

you don't respond, so he looks down only to find that you're fast asleep.

"tch. you ask to watch a movie, force me to pick it, and then you don't even have the decency to stay awake." he's not sure why he's chiding you even though he knows you can't hear him, but he keeps his voice low enough that it won't disturb you.

sukuna's spent more time than he cares to admit watching your sleeping form, but this is the first time that it's actually him you're pressed against. it's the first time he can reach out and touch you.

your hair has fallen across your face, so he pushes it back behind your ear gently. the pads of his fingers brush against your cheekbone, a ghost of a caress, and his gaze lingers on your parted lips.

he lets out a deep breath, tearing his eyes away from you. "impertinent brat."

reaching for the remote, he flips off the tv and casts the room in darkness.

upon waking up in the morning, yuuji's confused once he notices that he's on the couch and you're sleeping against his chest.

he may have been half asleep when he arrived home, but he's still positive he went to bed. stretching his arms above his head, the movement jostles you from your slumber.

"mornin', baby."

"good morning, yu," you yawn in response, shifting to sit up.

"how'd i wind up on the couch?" he asks, though he's already got an inkling of the answer.

"oh," you blush. "sukuna kind of made an appearance last night."

"that so? how'd it go?"

you think there might be a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. is he teasing you?

"good," you offer. "we watched a movie."

"watched a movie with the king of curses," he muses before his face breaks out into a lopsided grin. "you sure are somethin', baby."

returning his smile, you lean in and press your lips to his. "hm. says you."

it's not uncommon for you to meet yuuji for lunch if his mission is short and nearby, and today is one of those days, so he eagerly makes his way to the cafe you agreed on.

he's still a few hundred feet away when he spots you through the window, chatting with a man he recognizes as your childhood friend.

his gaze drops to where his hand is wrapped around your forearm as you both share a laugh together.

it doesn't really bother yuuji, he trusts you implicitly and jealousy isn't an emotion that's really on his radar. the same can't be said for everyone, though.

sukuna watches on as well, his thoughts much darker than his vessel's. who does that wretch think he is, putting his hands on you?

you're not his to touch.

"give me control," sukuna growls, his mouth appearing on yuuji's cheek.

"and why would i do that?"

"so i can rip his heart out and gift it to her since he seems so interested in offering his affections."

"duuuude," yuuji begins, somewhat amused. "i don't think she'd be super crazy about you murdering her friend."

"fine," sukuna bites back, well aware that yuuji has a point. "but he can live without his filthy hands, can't he? perhaps i'll pull each arm from his torso—"

yuuji snorts. "you have some serious issues, man."

he can feel sukuna trying to take over and easily curbs the attempt, though that only fuels the king of curses' irritation. "my only issue lies in the fact you're allowing this to happen."

yuuji reaches the door, a bell chiming through the cafe as he pulls it open. "she's a big girl. she doesn't need either of us to dictate what can and can't happen to her."

once you see your boyfriend, your face lights up and you call out his name. you place a kiss on his cheek and snake an arm around his waist in greeting, and the space it puts between you and your friend is enough to keep sukuna from protesting further.

"you two have met, right?" you ask.

"yeah! hey, itadori! it's been a while."

"it has! good to see you, yamada."

"i'd love to stay and chat more, but i have to get going," he states, leaning in to give you a hug which you return. "we should all go out together soon!"

"absolutely not, you deplorable knave—" yuuji slaps a hand to his cheek before sukuna can continue and yamada gives him an odd look.

your eyes widen for a split second and you have to stop yourself from facepalming.

"what'd you say?" yamada asks, sounding a bit hesitant.

"i said absolutely, sounds like an enjoyable night!"

the men exchange a handshake before you and yuuji make your way to a table.

"sukuna, what the hell was that?" you hiss once yamada's out of earshot.

"i don't know what you mean," he responds smugly.

you meet yuuji's eye and he just shrugs his shoulders, but you swear the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

you can't imagine anything good coming from the two of them colluding with one another, but let it go anyway.

opening up your menu, you sigh in defeat. "if you say so."

"what do you mean you'd rather disembowel yourself?" you question the man sitting across from you.

it's becoming more commonplace to see those dark marks adorning yuuji's body during the nighttime hours. you sometimes wonder if he's letting it happen or if sukuna's just getting better at taking over, but you're too nervous to ask.

"do you need a dictionary? there's one over on the shelf—"

"no, asshole. i know what disembowel means! i just don't understand your refusal."

he raises his eyebrows at the obscenity, but doesn't comment on it. "i'm not reading some inane romance novel."

"but brontë's one of my favorite authors!"

"it makes no difference if it was penned by the gods. the thought alone is absurd. can we move on now?"

you don't respond. instead, you cross your arms and stare at the wall defiantly. your face is contorted into an expression that lets sukuna know you're clearly affronted.

"very mature, you silly little girl."

"sorry you find me and my interests so childish," you huff.

"oh, please. that's not what i said."

you continue giving him the cold shoulder, having no desire to argue further, but more than willing to die on this hill.

"fine, don't talk. it's no matter to me," he claims (despite it being the furthest thing from the truth).

as the minutes tick by, he keeps looking at you from the corner of his eye and exhaling dramatically.

eventually, he calls your name in an exasperated tone, and while it makes your heart flutter, you still don't spare him a glance. you just hold the book out for him and to your surprise, he rips it from your grasp.

"you're ridiculous," he grumbles, opening the cover to reveal the first page. "i hate you."

when he glances over to see you're beaming at him despite the insult, he adds (albeit half heartedly), "i mean it, brat."

the two of you sit in silence, each of you reading your respective books. a few chapters in, sukuna comes across the following conversation:

"do you know where the wicked go after death?" "they go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer. "and what is hell? can you tell me that?" "a pit full of fire." "and should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?" "no, sir." "what must you do to avoid it?" i deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: "i must keep in good health, and not die."

to your astonishment, you actually hear him chuckle, but when he looks over and finds your self satisfied smirk, any hint of humor disappears from his face in the blink of an eye. your hand quickly moves to your mouth to stifle a giggle.

"something you want to say?" he baits you.

"nope, nothing at all!"

two nights later, he's already nearing the end of the story and you refrain from commenting about how quickly he's made his way through.

you doubt he'd allow your current position if you had— you're laying on your side, your head resting comfortably in his lap, one hand occupying the space above his knee.

when you asked if it was okay, all he offered you was a clipped, "i suppose."

your hair is splayed across his thigh and your eyes fluttered shut a while ago. when he agreed to this, he didn't realize how distracting it'd be. his gaze flickers between you and the words on the page with embarrassing frequency.

he's decided what you call cuddling is absolutely suffocating. how anyone could actually enjoy it, he's sure he'll never comprehend. he can hardly concentrate on the novel that's right in front of him—

"read to me, 'kuna," you mumble, interrupting his thoughts. it surprises him that you're still awake.

he scoffs. "what do i look like? your personal audiobook?"

"you didn't even know those existed until like a week ago," you laugh. "c'mon, pleaaaaaase."

he stays quiet for a few moments, so you're under the impression he may just ignore your request. as such, you're exceptionally pleased when his voice fills the otherwise still apartment.

you think the sound of his voice is comforting, an idea that would more than likely make him cringe, so you keep it to yourself. after all, you don't want him to stop.

at some point or another, he begins twirling a strand of your hair around his finger whenever he's not turning the page, an action that seems to take place without his noticing.

occasionally he'll pause to ask if you're even listening. it's an odd feeling that blossoms in his stomach when you assure, "mhmm. every word."

as he reaches the second to last chapter, he reads a line that makes you question whether your heart's stopped beating. you're not sure if it's because of the tone of his voice, the words he's imparting, or some mix thereof.

"no—no—jane; you must not go. no—i have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence—the sweetness of your consolation: i cannot give up these joys. i have little left in myself—I must have you. the world may laugh—may call me absurd, selfish—but it does not signify."

he stops reading, as if he too feels the sense of unease that's invaded the air. against your better judgement, you turn to look at him. his eyes are glued to the page, almost like they're avoiding you, and his jaw is tense.

"my very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.”

when his gaze finally lands on you, his expression is almost pained. it's a strange contrast to the warm fondness you spot in his eyes.

you quickly push that thought away, however. whatever you believe you may have seen, you're probably just deluding yourself. you know you aren't his least favorite person, but surely he'd never feel even half of that sentiment toward you—

your breath catches in your throat when his hand reaches up, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. he still marvels at the fact you don't shy away from his touch, that you're usually the one to seek out contact with him.

perhaps the story is not as asinine as he expected it to be. rochester presumes jane will find him revolting, yet she still agrees to be with him, even after his selfishness has been made plain to her. after the sins of his past have caught up to him.

no, no, no.

to be so desperate for some woman's approval, or her devotion for that matter, is despicable. rochester's nothing less than foolish and sukuna isn't anything like him.

but you're certainly like jane, aren't you? fearless, passionate, and determined: all things he can't help but find endearing...

gods, what is this turmoil? it's making him feel pathetic and there isn't an emotion in the world he hates more—

you distract him from his internal monologue when your fingers wrap around his wrist and bring his knuckles to your lips. "you okay?"

"of course," he mutters, pulling his hand away. "just trying to get past all the mawkishness."

"really? you think it's that bad?" you question, the frown on your lips igniting that ache in his chest that appears whenever you're upset.

"it's not terrible," he sighs, realizing there may indeed be one thing he despises even more than feeling pathetic. "although i don't understand how jane is so taken with rochester."

you seem to ponder this for a moment before shrugging. "love is weird."

"what a clever analysis."

you slap his chest playfully. "oh, whatever. just keep going, you're almost finished!"

and you're right. he does reach the end of jane eyre that night, but not before you fall asleep on his lap. he closes the book, running a finger down the creased spine and setting it down carefully. it's obvious you've read it several times.

admittedly, he can see why, but he'd be caught dead before he'd ever tell you as much.

left alone with his thoughts, he considers the impossibility of jane and rochester: a charming, headstrong woman and a cruel, arrogant man.

leaning forward, he whispers your name to make certain you're asleep, then places a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"..sweet dreams."

[austinsastrology8991]

> moon in houses <

The moon is the real you; its the reflection you see when you look into the mirror. Its the version of you that comes out when you stop showing everyone what they want to see.

Moon in the 1st - You are the moon and because of this, you look emotional. But you put on this face to protect yourself, but the very fact your putting on a face tells me and everyone else; that your emotional. And this should be fine but many people like to poke at defensive people for the simple fact that they are reactive. But your a comfortable person to be around... until you start getting defensive. Moon in 2nd - You are a pretty stubborn person and you get emotional if you don't get things your way. since your aware you want your way; you make sure to get your way. And so your usually comfortable to be around because we atleast know what will make you happy > your like that baby that needed its go go juice Moon in 3rd - You need stimulation to survive. So your a pretty interesting person to talk to, but you were probably an annoying kid. but now as an adult, you've kept your childlike spirit, and in all likelihood it was because of your overactive mind in your childhood. Which has stayed the same. Yay. Moon in 4th - You keep your feelings private because your emotional. This is good though because others usually respect your boundaries because they are aware it can hit a nerve. You were raised well, and it could be very emotional thing to think about, but full of nostalgia. but because of this comfortable way you were raised, your lowkey a lil soft. Ik you hated that, but people eat this shit up Moon in the 5th - Your like a painter or you own a cringe ass blog or something. You love to keep your hobbies private, because they mean so much to you. But if someone gets you talking about what you like; your very passionate. So when someone shows the slightest disinterest in something you like; you get pretty insecure.

Moon in the 6th - You need to feel useful otherwise you feel incomplete. You are always working and whether that be just ideas inside your head, or getting that bag; you won't feel satisfied unless you have accomplished something. Moon in the 7th - You are looking for emotions in others so you always show your emotions. You have a compulsive need to understand others, and a good way to do this is by getting them to open up to you. So you show a smidge of your vulnerable side to see how much the other person will show you. Moon in the 8th - You are trapped in an emotional pit of fear. And you struggle to escape your epiphanies of existionalism/ traumas of your past. You know why people are the way they are, and thats why your careful in how you communicate to others; you don't want to see them have a worser emotional reaction, when it already is bad enough (as they provoke deep unsettling feelings within) you attempt to transform others emotions in hopes it’ll change your own. Moon in the 9th - You are almost devoid of feeling, because your so focused on interpreting the deeper meaning of things, which in all honesty detaches you from your feelings more often than it connects you to it. Moon in the 10th - You are master oogway, you understand others well and know how to put others at ease. But because your so focused on your reputation, you confidently tell others you can be their confidants. And whilst you do understand psychology well, you neglect your own well being to save face. Moon in the 11th - You have many friends that are emotional/sensitive and act defensively. But I believe you meet these people so you have a broader understanding of emotions, and can connect the dots that others could not have > especially given how we are all caught in our own emotions. But this makes you relatively fearful of potential ramifications of your own emotions; because you have seen the best case and the worst case scenario many times over. Moon in the 12th - You don't understand your emotions. Or others emotions. It's kind of a sore spot for you. And because of this you may not be all that defensive towards others because you don't understand when your in a dangerous situation. and this may contribute to why you run in dangerous situations often; because you trigger people like a sensor with ur lack of awareness and clear openness

[sukunasweetheart]

after learning that sukuna canonly speaks in an elegent and poetic way and uses old japanese terms (that sadly gets lost in translation) i can’t stop thinking of him being a literature or terminology professor😖 like this man would say romantic things to you out of nowhere and you’re like “what?🥴” and he says “what? what’s the big deal🤨”

no bc picture sukuna with glasses and a coffee in one hand, wearing an awfully smart outfit, his passion for jujutsu replaced with passion for literature, a tall mf who has an unapproachable aura in every way possible

his classes are by no means, for the weak. high demand, but high results. meaning, if you successfully endure and manage to grit your teeth through his assignments and harsh, but reasonable critique, you will have attained something very valuable from the experience, because this man expects nothing but the best from students who sit through his classes and want to learn about the art of literature + poetry

so many college students develop a crush on him, despite his difficult personality...

his lovelife is rather stagnant, however. literature professor!sukuna is too careful about who he brings into his life, being mostly uninterested in romance and the turmoil it brings to a person. he isn't fond of the idea that he could be potentially swayed so easily by one singular person. how awful would it be that your entire mood could depend on one individual? he was pretty content with spending the rest of his life as a single man, so be it.

but really, nobody is immune to the nature of falling in love... it can be something that happens at the snap of one's fingers. or it can be gradual, like a slow but firm tug that pulls you in closer towards someone. it can occur almost violently, and you might find yourself thrashing frantically against the net that you've gotten tangled up in. or, it can occur in a way that is as elegant and gentle as how one handles their most beloved books, flipping through each page without leaving as much as a crease behind...

for sukuna, all the boxes can be ticked off. falling in love with you, a fellow professor, was like experiencing all of these at once. the realisation hit like a bolt of lightning, when he caught himself... smiling? when he was reading an email of yours. he had to take off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose for that one. there was no way. it happens this quickly?

it's hard to say whether he fell in deep from the start, or if happened more like sinking slowly, helpless, in quicksand. either way, it didn't matter whether he tried to struggle or not, he was only plummeting further.

it only hurt him when he tried to distance himself away. it only hurt him when he tried holding himself back from contacting you. it seemed like everything he did in attempt to quell the thrumming in his heart, only came back to hurt him.

it started off as emails between two professional colleagues. but eventually, it developed into polite follows onto each other's social media accounts. and almost inevitably, personal numbers were then exchanged after much talking in dms. it was very funny, seeing his empty shell of an instagram account, no posts or even a profile picture in place. such clever and well pronounced prose coming from a colourless account.

let's not get into the moment where he first experienced your touch. when handing him a novel, you brushed fingers with him, and sukuna felt a strange tingle that travelled down his spine.

many instances come- where an overwhelming desire to pull you close to him by the waist, grasps him by the throat. the conflicting compulsion and urge to wreck you, but also having the need to treat you like he would a fragile butterfly.

he goes out drinking with you, one evening. already a dangerous move.

in a soft, but a little busy area in maybe a small, cheap restaurant where the two of you are residing. both of you a little tipsy, but not drunk. tipsy enough for lingering gazes. tipsy enough for the little unnoticeable but definitely noticeable touches. tipsy enough to bring out the vulnerability to seep out of yours and his eyes.

you and him, confined in a little cosy and invisible bubble… all and every noise that's made outside of it sounds muffled.

the tilting of your head as you look at him with a flirtatious smile, the reach of your delicate fingers approaching his cheek slowly, but then retracting because you're still unsure, because you're only tipsy.

and he, with his mellow eyes, grabs onto your hand before you can get away. why don't you commit? his searing hot palm clasps over your skin, and it captures you in every way possible.

and you're doing it again. you're batting your eyelashes at him, tempting him into doing something definitively irreversible. now that he's touched you, he can't compel himself to let go. you've done it now. there's nothing he can do to stop this.

your eyes follow as he reaches for his own glasses, still holding onto your hand, grip so firm yet so gentle. sukuna takes them off. carefully places them onto the table. the next order of events should have been so painfully obvious, but it still didn't fail in making your heart pound within your ribcage.

he kisses you so feverishly. he palms your jawline with great tenderness, bringing you in impossibly closer. so enraptured, so infatuated, so sweet. he holds your hand tighter, gliding his large thumb over it.

it brings him an intense amount of joy, touching you like this. it's addicting. and he never wants to let go again. he's a selfish man at heart, already claiming you as his internally, because you enthrall him and induce such pleasure like no one before. oh, how aggravating. but also, simply delightful.

it's time he brought you home. if you've caught someone up in your web, it's only right you take responsibility. will you consume him? or will he do it first?

after this string of events, sukuna is most definitely no longer a single man. having a lover around has its merits, and its disadvantages. but never does the bad outweigh the good, at least when it comes to you.

maybe he'll write an excerpt about you. a little free verse poem. beautifully worded, but incredibly abstract. nobody could guess how it all ties back to you. not even yourself, perhaps. but that's what sukuna intended. he's satisfied with keeping this secret to himself.

you'd think having such a mellow lovelife would also transfer the same softness into his lectures, and assignments. wrong. as a professor, he's still as prickly as ever.

[hitomisuzuya]

Hiiii How r u??<333

May I request Scara trying to complete NNN but Fem Reader keeps teasing him pls? Wearing short skirts and tight clothes making it hard for him <3

Scaramouche x fem!reader. Smut. Teasing. Masturbation. Scaramouche trying really hard not to have perverted thoughts.

I'm doing okay❤️ It was really fun to write this.

You would never forget the way Scaramouche boasted that he could do No Nut November easily. Truth is, he didn't put a lot of thought behind the declaration. Pretty much his only weakness was you. But, he was determined not to crack, no matter what you did to him.

It was little things that started getting to him a first. Like Smelling your shampoo while you were taking a shower, the tendrils of hot water reaching places he wish his fingers, his mouth and his cock could go. He thudded his head against the wall of his bedroom trying not to think about making you sucking his cock until the water in the shower turned cold.

The imprints of his fingernails in the palms of his hands would always be fresh and stinging, especially when you walked around in short skirts with thigh or knee high stockings. His cock throbbed when he saw the flash of a garter belt fastened around your thigh. He wanted to snap it on your thigh while he tongue fucked you into oblivion for teasing him like this.

You made it your mission to make it easy for him to hear you masturbating, even leaving the bedroom door cracked open to add to the temptation. It was so hard for him stop himself from palming and rubbing his aching cock when you would look right at him and moaned his name, spreading the lips of your pussy so he could see your fingers pumping in an out of you. His jaw would be sore from how hard he was gritting his teeth, wanting so badly to replace your fingers with his.

The worst day for him was when you straddled his thigh wearing no panties, whispering in his ear how you wanted to use his thigh to get yourself off. He wanted to push you off of him, his cock leaking and straining in his shorts hearing you whimper as you rubbed yourself into a wet, moaning mess on this thigh. At least he got to feast his eyes on your expression whole your cum soaked onto shorts. But that only seemed to make things so much worse all the same.

You would even leave your panties laying around your room, challenging him not to jack himself off into them. You enjoyed watching him struggle with the compulsion. He was hardly sleeping by this point, it was hard for him not to cum you were teasing him so much.

On the last week was when Scaramouche caved. You walking around in absolutely no panties and a short skirt. "Fuck this challenge," He hissed, pulling you to straddle his lap. God, it felt so good to grind up against you again. He knew he wouldn't last long, but he didn't care.

"S-Scara, you got so far," You moaned, making him growl as he grinds turned more urgent. He hissed in pleasured relief when cum spurted in his shorts. He was so pent up. Cumming once wasn't going to be enough.

Scaramouche flipped you over onto your stomach, yanking your skirt up once he'd freed his already hardening cock from what he'd considered the hellish prison of his shorts. "Brace yourself, kitten. We have weeks worth of fucking to catch up on," He groaned as he slammed himself inside of you, bottoming out at once with a quick snap of his hips.

The moan of relief he let out was long and husky feeling your walls tighten and clamp around his cock as he fucked into you from behind for the first time in almost a month. His fingers were feverish on your clit, his skin smacking aggressively against yours as he pressed your face into the pillows.

Scaramouche wasn't going to stop impaling you on his cock in various positions for hours, never stopping until his cock was milked completely dry. You had to be punished severely for putting him through this hell.

[covetyou]

best in show

ao3 ⋆ masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: dual narrative, masturbation (m), voyuerism, drug reference (our boy is sober but struggling), subby Dieter, slight humiliation kink, very brief mentions of other sex acts (anal play, PIV, cum play), reader talks Dieter through a very nervy wank. word count: 3.7k summary: The Academy Awards, the most well known, well planned, film award ceremony in the world. So why is the host missing?

A/N: @agentjackdaniels happy holidays from your space sisters secret santa! sorry if this is a bit early for you - it's the 20th in my time zone, I promise! I went the route of award show!Dieter with a twist. Welcome to the Oscars, with your eccentric host - Dieter Bravo.

the suits mentioned are from SNL (blue, we're ignoring the yellow pants), the late late show (pink) and the tonight show (green).

dividers by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

"Bravo, you're up."

You rap your knuckles against the door again, hoping against hope that he just hasn't heard you and he isn't coked up out of his mind.

"Bravo!" you shout, knocking harder this time, as a voice blares through your in-ear. Fifteen minutes until showtime and the host is still nowhere to be seen. And it is your fault. You'd drawn the short straw and had been tasked with being his handler for the night, keeping him out of mischief and on time. Currently, it looked like you were failing at both.

"Right, I'm coming in!" You cannot be dealing with this shit. You're not paid enough.

You open the door, poking your head around to see if he's inside the dressing room, like he should be, only to find it completely empty. Stepping inside and closing the door behind you, you take in a deep breath and put your hands on your hips. Fuck. Whoever's idea to put Dieter-fucking-Bravo as the host for this years Oscars really needed a kick up the ass, and you'd be first in line to do it.

The room looks tidier than you expected. There's not an obvious illicit substance in sight. Sparkling water sits on the vanity, along with make up and haircare products. You didn't even know where his stylist is, but it was nice to know she'd at least been here. His clothes are still neatly lined on a rail - the first hanger is empty and you assume that's a good sign. It's got to be, right?

Except, Dieter Bravo is still nowhere to be found, and you've ran out of places to look for him.

The only conundrum is all the lights are still on. He'd left the room in such a hurry that he hadn't bothered to switch them off, and yet no one had reported him frantically dashing out in a drug fueled mania.

Even the bathroom light is on. And the door is ajar. You think it won't hurt to check inside, or at least turn the light off. A place like this burned through electricity like nobodies business, but your compulsion to turn off unused lights wins out and you're heading toward the bathroom on auto-pilot.

You only hear the whimper when you're already pushing the door open, and by then it's too late to stop.

That's how you find yourself stood in the doorway, watching as Dieter Bravo furiously jerks his cock with his eyes slammed closed and his head thrown back. You could back out, you should, but instead you stare transfixed as his fist moves over himself, so lost in it all that you don't even think he's noticed you standing there. You really should go before he notices.

Making a quiet retreat you -

"Stay."

Your eyes snap to his. He's looking at you now. His hand has stilled, squeezing himself tight, and you frown. You shouldn't. You shouldn't have even come in, and you definitely should not be seeing this, and you even more certainly must not be considering his offer.

"If you want. Please."

The nod of your head is so small it's practically imperceptible, but he sees it and groans deeply, resuming his strokes on his cock. It's framed in vibrant blue, and you're reminded how he wouldn't even be here if he didn't have that suit. One of the conditions he'd made on hosting was he would get to have a "more exciting" wardrobe, and the green, pink, and blue you'd seen wheeled in on his rail earlier today certainly lived up to that.

It looks good on him. He looks good. Fuck. You really should go, why did you nod your head.

You watch him swipe pre-cum from his head and draw it down his cock. He looks painfully stiff, and you wonder how long he's been at it, if this is the first time today or if he's been jerking himself every opportunity. Either way, you're mesmerized, watching as his large fist draws up and back down his length. You should do something - go, say something, tell him to stop, join in.

Instead, you just stand there, gaping at it like a fucking idiot. Why is your mouth watering.

"Please I-"

"You don't have long," you interrupt.

"I know, I know, I just - I can't -" he pants, looking at you with desperation.

"You can't what?"

"Come. I can't come."

You hold back a laugh. From what you'd heard about Dieter Bravo, that was not a problem he seemed to have very often. You don't hold it back well enough though, and a small sound escapes you, triggering a shudder that you watch run down his back.

"Oh god."

"Did you -?" like me laughing at you, you cut yourself off.

You lean against the doorframe, attempting nonchalance as Dieter tugs on his cock, watching you as you watch him.

You dismissed him earlier, regarding him with indifference and not ever really looking at him. But, appearances alone tell you he's changed. No longer is there a sunken look to his face from too many nights spent out of his mind. He looks healthy, healthier than you've ever seen him, but he looks scared. Frightened, borderline terrified even. You know the only thing standing between him and pure panic is his stiff cock in his hand.

It's probably why he can't come, but is equally desperate to. And if he liked you laughing, well, maybe you could give him a hand without actually giving him a hand.

"If you don't come soon, they're gonna catch you."

He groans, and his strokes slow, becoming more deliberate and focussed as you talk to him.

"Do you want that? Do you want to be caught with your dick in your hand?"

"F-no. No, I don't."

"Then you've gotta be quick and come."

He nods his head frantically, then looks down at his cock here it lays heavy in his hand. He spits, gliding the saliva across his length.

"If you're not careful you're gonna make a mess all over yourself."

"Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop."

Five minutes - has anyone got eyes on Bravo.

The stage managers voice blares through your in-ear so loudly that you know Dieter has heard it. You purposefully hold the button on your mic as you watch him, making him pinch his lips shut to hold back his moan.

"I've found him," you say into your headset, releasing the button. Let it be known you are not bad at your job, and if anyone was going to find him first it would be you.

"Didn't say you could stop. You still need to come."

"I do, I do, I need to - "

You're holding down the button on your headset again, and he audibly groans this time.

"He's in the bathroom."

When you release the button for the final time, you raise an eyebrow at him. His breaths are coming in ragged and heavy, his eyebrows pinched together as his eyes threaten to flutter closed. You're no expert, but you can tell he's close, and by the movement of his hand you can tell he's still struggling to get there.

"Look at me."

Dieter looks up, pleading with his sad, pathetic eyes. You'd be lying if you said all of this wasn't turning you on. If it hadn't turned your legs to jelly and you weren't grateful for the sturdy doorframe propping you up. If your panties weren't soaked through and your core wasn't throbbing just from watching and speaking. If you weren't desperate to take him in your hand, bend yourself over the sink in front of him, anything.

But there was no time.

With four minutes to go, you do the only thing you can.

"Come, Dieter."

He's due on stage soon. He knows he is. That very thing is the reason why he shouldn't be doing this, but the very same reason why he's doing it in the first place. He needs it, something, anything, to take his mind off of it all and to take the edge off. Six months of sobriety and too many people to keep him accountable meant he couldn't - wouldn't - turn to his usual vices, so this would have to do.

He's struggling. Any other day and he would've come already, maybe to the thought of some gloriously plush tits, painting golden tan lines with his cum. Or a tongue swirling expertly around his asshole. Or the grip of something warm and wet and hot around his cock that wasn't his own fist. But today, nothing is working.

The bang on his dressing room door startles him, not only making his whole body twitch, but his dick too.

And then comes your voice, muffled but so obviously you even through two doors.

"Bravo, you're up."

Shit. He's gotta finish fast, he can't go out here like this, and he can't go out there with nothing to relieve the panic coursing through his veins. And then his mind flicks back to earlier in the day, meeting you and shaking your hand. Your hands had been soft, and you'd smelled fresh and clean. It calmed him. But then you'd listed off everything you needed him to do and told him and his team to get to it with a sharp click of your fingers before stalking off. His cock twitches again, and suddenly he has exactly the fuel he needs to get himself off.

He begins moving his hand again, stroking his balls gently in the other. You've probably gone away, stalked off with your ass jiggling in your pants just like earlier. He grunts, closing his eyes to savor the image. You'd looked good. He can remember the clip of your sensible heels on the floor now. Fuck, he'd let you step on him with those shoes given the chance.

"Bravo!" Another knock on the door and another sigh. If you stay there knocking long enough, it'll get him off. He just knows it.

"Right, I'm coming in."

He knows he should panic. Knows he should stop, tuck his cock away, pretend he was just using the bathroom and washing his hands. But he doesn't. The threat of being caught, by you, spurs him on. If only he could get closer and just fucking come already.

The door of his dressing room opens, and Dieter has to bite back a moan. When the door closes again, he has to fight back disappointment until he hears your footsteps just outside the bathroom. He never fully closed the door, and there's no time to shut it now. He's so close.

"Oh fuck," he whispers, looking down at his weeping cock where it's gripped in his hand. It's rock solid, flushed tip oozing pre-cum that trickles from his slit and coats his fingers with every jerk of his fist.

Time drags on as he hears you walk around, looking for him. And then your footsteps approach the door and he can't help but whimper at the idea of you catching him with his cock in his hand.

His eyes slam shut, his head tilting back as he bites back a louder moan. He doesn't hear the door open, but feels the air shift, blowing a cool breeze over him that makes his dick throb in his hand. If the blood wasn't pounding out of his head so hard he would have heard your small intake of breath as you took him in.

He really should stop. But he doesn't.

And when you go to leave, he really should let you go, but he doesn't do that either.

"Stay."

You're beautiful, in a way that you wouldn't even recognize in yourself, but fuck are you beautiful. Even when you frown at him, eyebrows pinching together, you're beautiful.

"If you want. Please."

Dieter Bravo is not a begging man. Outside of the bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or anywhere else where his dick can get involved really. He didn't beg for this job, they'd approached him. He tried to make himself into such a diva that they'd retract their offer, but his agent was determined for him to take it and for once get some good PR under his belt. The promise of good PR did nothing to stop his nerves.

When your head does the tiniest of nods he feels like he could cry. Knowing that you're watching him - and, fuck, how attentively you're watching him - his balls draw tight, threatening to spill themselves before backing off. It's still not enough. Why the fuck is it still not enough.

"Please I-"

"You don't have long."

Your voice. It's like it's just been drizzled over his brain and is melting him from the inside out, turning his body to goo.

"I know, I know, I just - I can't -" he pants, looking at you with desperation. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it's painfully obvious that he can't come if his life depended on it. And it practically does - if he didn't come and get out there as soon as possible, his career would very likely be over. He can see the headlines now - BRAVO ABANDONS OSCARS IN COKE FUELED FRENZY. If he still did coke, he wouldn't be having this problem.

"You can't what?"

"Come. I can't come."

He knows you try not to, but he hears your laugh. It's small, but coming from you, directed at him, it does things to him he didn't expect. He lurches forward as his whole body shudders.

"Oh god."

He squeezes his eyes shut again, hoping that this'll finally be it, finally be the thing that sends him over the edge.

"Did you -?"

He didn't come, that much should be obvious, he thinks. But then he's looking at you again and gets lost in your eyes as you watch him with such nonchalance that it makes him ache down to his bones.

"If you don't come soon, they're gonna catch you."

He groans, desperate strokes becoming slow and more deliberate as he listens to your voice. If you just keep talking to him he'll get there, and this will all be over and he can get out there and do his damn job.

"Do you want that? Do you want to be caught with your dick in your hand?"

"F-no. No, I don't." Liar.

"Then you've gotta be quick and come."

He nods his head frantically, and spits down onto his cock, watching as his hand glides up and down. He imagines it's your hand for a moment, smaller more delicate fingers pulling at his cock, smoothly moving back and forth in an attempt to get him off.

"If you're not careful you're gonna make a mess all over yourself."

Dieter doesn't give a shit about that right now. Just a little longer and he'll be there, he knows it. He just needs you to keep going.

"Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop."

Five minutes - has anyone got eyes on Bravo.

It's muffled, but he can hear the words clear as day through your in-ear. The stage manager sounds pissed, and the devilish look in your eye as you reach to press the button to respond has him biting back a moan and stilling his hand on his cock.

"I've found him."

He lets out a shaky breath when you finally release the button again, his cock feeling red hot and angry in his hand.

"Didn't say you could stop. You still need to come."

Looking to you, he starts jerking his cock again and nods. "I do, I do, I need to - "

And then you're pressing down the button to speak into your headset again and he's groaning before you even speak.

"He's in the bathroom."

He doesn't give a shit if they heard. His knees feel weak and his eyes are ready to clamp closed, but he can't resist staring at you and that cocky look on your face as you release the button again. Your eyebrow quirks at him and he knows in that moment he'd get on his knees and beg you for something, anything, if only he had the time.

"Look at me."

Dieter looks up, feeling the desperation roll off himself in waves. He wonders if you can feel it, and if any of this is having any affect on you at all. Fuck, he hopes it is. He's going to come. He's really, actually, going to come.

Time's ticking, he knows it is, and his balls are getting tight and tighter again, he can feel them pulling up but he still can't -

"Come, Dieter."

And his vision goes white as he explodes in his palm.

You're staring at him. He can't believe he just did that and you can't believe you stayed to watch. And you talked him through it.

More specifically, you're staring at the cum splashed all over his shirt and how it's slowly but steadily trickling down the fabric. He's lucky he opened his jacket before pulling his cock out, or the whole outfit would be ruined. Dieter is so blissed out that he doesn't even notice, softening cock still in his hand and eyes still closed.

Until rapidly cooling cum drips onto the back of his hand and he's opening his eyes, looking down to the crime scene splattered across his shirt.

"Fuck."

The panic in his voice is obvious. People will be bursting in to collect him any moment, and there's one hell of a mess to clean up. But, you're a problem solver by nature, it's why you're so good at your job.

"Take it off!" you tell him, snapping out of your cock induced trance and gesturing to the ruined shirt.

"What? I didn't think there was time to-"

"I'm not fucking you right now," you hiss. "You've got two minutes, take it off, I'll grab another. You've got other outfits, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah the shirt with the pink suit should work. My stylist is gonna fucking kill me - wait did you say right now - "

He's alone in the bathroom, tucking his dick away, throwing his jacket aside and peeling the soiled shirt from his shoulders before you can answer. Usually he hides the evidence, but there's not time to stash the extra shirt anywhere when there's another sudden knock on the door. The best he can do is throw his jacket back on over his bare shoulders so at least he's not seen to be topless and alone with you as he steps into his dressing room.

The door swings open just as you reach for the hanger of the pink suit, stopping you in your tracks.

"Dee. They're looking for you," his stylist walks in, looking at her phone. She spots you first, before flicking her eyes to Dieter and pointing in confusion. "Oh, hi. Where's your shirt?"

He shrugs, shoulders rising high as you stare at the exposed section of his chest now on full display beneath his jacket. "Changed my mind about it. Looks good enough like this, right?" He checks himself out in the mirror and adjusts his hair a fraction as if nothing untoward had just happened.

You're starting to understand how he won his own Oscar all those years ago.

His stylist seems to be just as eccentric as he is, and is thrilled by the choice to go shirtless. You're not sure your boss will be, but before you can offer a different shirt, Dieter is being whisked away by the production crew, all with confused looks on their faces as they take in his outfit. Dieter takes one last look back at you, mouthing a quick thank you as he's dragged off to begin the show.

The 96th Academy Awards go off without a hitch. You're already hearing reports from online that Dieter Bravo is a hit, his opening outfit being lauded as unique and a breath of fresh air for a sometimes stuffy and overly serious award ceremony. You watch him out of the corner of your eye through two costume changes - both times watching as he leaves wearing a shirt under each of his bold colored jackets.

It's a chaotic, well oiled machine, and by the time all is said and done and after parties are in full swing, you're winding down and saying thank yous and goodnight to the crew who made it all happen. One last sweep of the dressing rooms and you'll be on your way home too.

Empty, empty, empty. And then you're opening the door to Dieter's dressing room, ready to flick the light off and put the building to bed.

Except, Dieter Bravo is there, a vision in deep emerald green, holding the messed shirt from earlier in the evening in one hand and scribbling a note onto the back of a small card with the other. He sees you enter, and looks as stunned to see you as you are to see him.

"No after party?"

He looks sheepish, almost embarrassed when he answers.

"Not any more."

Admittedly, it was perhaps a stupid question to ask a recovering addict. "Oh."

You both awkwardly stand for a moment, Dieter keeping his eyes locked on the card in his hand before he's walking toward you and shoving it in front of you. You take it just as he edges past you out of the dressing room.

There's a note addressed to you and a number, scribbled hastily in Dieter's messy handwriting.

"I didn't want to be too forward, I know these things are..." he trails off with a wave of his hand. "Was just gonna leave that here and leave it up to you."

I owe you my life. Let me take you for coffee. Call me? D x

Looking up from the note, you can see him hesitantly make an exit. Calling after him, he stops in his tracks, spinning on his heel to look at you with more hope than you expect he intended.

"I'm just about to close up, if you wanted to go grab that coffee?"

And so, at 11pm on the night of the 96th Academy Awards, you find yourself in an empty diner, drinking bad coffee with Dieter-fucking-Bravo.

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[a-secret-bolton-vampire]

CW: Rape, incest, CSA

This is actually not a strictly A Song of Ice and Fire post here, but it overlaps in some ways so I figured I'd write this.

Anyone who has not read the web serials Worm or Ward and wishes to avoid spoilers, don't read this post:

Disclaimer out of the way, I've found striking parallels between fandom reaction for both A Song of Ice and Fire and Parahumans regarding how characters who survived sexual abuse view their abusers, in a dangerously disturbing way.

For this I'm going to specifically be using the examples of Aeron and Theon Greyjoy from A Song of Ice and Fire to compare and contrast to Victoria Dallon in Ward. All three were psychologically and sexually tormented by their abusers during the course of the series. Theon is a young adult by the time Ramsay gets his hands on him, but Aeron and Victoria were both children when they were molested by family members so they will be the main two characters to compare.

In the case of Euron and Aeron, there are a (sadly very vocal) minority who are ready to dismiss Euron's danger to others by specifically using Aeron's abuse against him. Sure, Euron is evil and horrifically abused him and Urrigon when they were children, and it is understandable that Aeron would be mortified of Euron. After all, he tries to warn people about Euron repeatedly, only for his attempts to stop him to all fail.

The response by this section of the fandom to claims of Euron being built up as a major threat are essentially that Aeron's trauma is in the way of his ability to perceive Euron objectively. Is Euron actually as dangerous as Aeron claims? You can say the same for Theon and Ramsay. After all, Theon is half-mad warning Stannis about Ramsay, and Stannis is bringing some Rational Realness to the forefront by saying "what do I have to fear him for?"

Since GRRM is never releasing another A Song of Ice and Fire book it's hard to say what he intends but he could definitely intend for this to be the case. That said, there is a story featuring a similar character that is completed. Ward!

Victoria Dallon's sister, Amy, is a cape with healing abilities, though as the series progresses we know that healing is just the tip of the iceberg; she can change the biological makeup of living things. Amy is adopted, and has never felt any love from anyone other than Victoria. Amy develops deep romantic love for her sister, however, and then begins a series of bad decisions that just serve to deepen her already deep mental breakdown.

Amy proceeds to; alter Victoria's brain chemistry to give her compulsive romantic thoughts about her, then following healing Victoria after a battle, she spends several days alone with her, during which she repeatedly rapes her, erases her memories of said rapes, until her mental health deteriorates even further and she is unable to use her power properly and turns Victoria into the Wretch: a mass of flesh and limbs and heads, rather than anything actually human.

Then Victoria spends 2 years in a mental institution, stuck in a body she hates, all the while fighting the compulsions Amy left in place. When she finally returns Victoria to normal at the end of Worm, it is actually against her will and not because she had a change of heart or got more confident.

Then we get to Ward, where Victoria is the main POV. As is very obvious, Victoria is struggling with extremely intense PTSD, mentioning Amy is enough to trigger a dissociative flashback, and she wants absolutely nothing to do with her anymore: and fucking rightfully so.

Victoria also warns people about Amy. She warns her therapist to try to reach out to Amy before she hurts someone else, she warns literally anyone who will listen about Amy and what she might end up doing. We may not know what it is that Ramsay and Euron end up doing, but we do know what Amy does.

She refuses all help and doubles down on bad decisions, enslaves people with her powers, later imprisons and torments and touches Victoria again against her will, and becomes the dictatorial monster in charge of an entire planet. Victoria's warnings prove to be extremely prophetic and extremely real.

Now lets get into some discourse shall we?

Despite Amy being a rapist who rapes her sister, enslaves others via mind control, and literally never once improving as a person or acknowledging that her actions even caused harm, there are still those who think Amy isn't at fault. Some might find this post, but I don't really care. Amy is at fault for things Amy did. Victoria is not at fault for hugging her sister like a normal human being when Amy is upset, Amy didn't do her a favour healing her because then she just raped her and then really couldn't fix her back to a human body, and Amy isn't absolved of these sins because she healed a lot of people.

Essentially, Victoria is sometimes blamed for being raped by her sister, the rapist, despite Amy canonically being a manipulative lying liar rapist.

Okay so that doesn't seem to related to what the fandom says with Euron and Ramsay, right? After all, we don't really blame Aeron for being molested and Theon for also being sexually tortured and abused by Ramsay, do we? There are factors as to why that is (mostly that Aeron and Theon are men and Victoria is a woman; if you don't buy this argument look at people who say Cersei deserved to be sexually assaulted by Robert or try to use "the times" as an excuse to overlook Daenerys also being raped by Drogo) but there is an overlap here.

Amy being able to get away with that she did only to go on and hurt so many other people is a meta-commentary on the way survivors of sexual abuse are disbelieved or blamed for what happened to them. Naturally, those real like abusers end up going to abuse other people too. Fuck, even in the fandom, Victoria is still fucking blamed for things that she had absolutely no choice in the matter.

Which leads back to Theon and Aeron. Yes, trauma impacts the way you remember traumatic events, and that means objectivity can get lost at times. It can for Victoria and Theon and Aeron. But that trauma, the dissociation, memory problems, all of these together, are there for a reason. And that's because someone came along, ruined another persons life for their own pleasure and satisfaction, and then got away with it.

Victoria warned the world about what Amy would do, and she was unfortunately correct. Theon and Aeron warned others about Ramsay and Euron. Survivors should be believed, and not be dismissed. After all, it isn't our fault that we got abused. People may hear things about Euron or Amy or Ramsay, but the people who truly know who they are---what they are capable of, what they are actually like---are the people they abused.

So yeah, it's kinda fucking lame when I hear someone go "Stannis gonna prove Theon wrong with facts and logic" as if he doesn't, I don't know, have insight into Ramsay's psychology in ways Stannis doesn't. Same with Euron. Same with Amy.

Also fucking read Ward it hurts as intensely as it kicks ass.

[nonotnolan]

Fiverr Warlock: Holiday Magic

Christmas can be a tricky for us magic users. A lot of clients come to us, hoping for budget miracles or last minute holiday magic, so it's easy to start feeling like people just take you for granted. Plus, warlocks are notoriously difficult to shop for. Most of the things we really want for Christmas, we can just conjure something up ourselves. I was started to get really, really burnt out on the holidays until I figured out a trick to raise my spirits-- as a bonus, it's even easy to do. I just pick a random deserving person and give them some charity magic.

Take a look at Jake, here. He's one of the lowest clerks on the totem pole, but he's also the only tailor I know who sees me as a person and not a commission payout. When he told me last week that he was on his second low sales write-up and about to get fired, I decided to make him one of this season's recipients. I know he's a great guy, but I can't blame a random person off the street rejecting a tailor who can't even wear a properly fitting suit. Improving his appearance will go a long way, I think. The problem is Jake would never accept my direct help for free, so I'll have to be subtle about it.

The first step was getting rid of his facial hair. Some guys look good with scruff, but Jake's body isn't growing hair thick enough for a good beard. I'll start there, and work my way up. As far as Jake knows, I was there to buy some dress shoes. I was actually there to cast a delayed change spell on him that would remove all of that unwanted hair overnight. While I was there, I added some skin moisteners and a long-lasting fatigue remover. Finally, I added a mental shroud so that he wouldn't notice the changes to himself.

When I went back to check on my work, I was pleased to see that Jake already showed a noticeable improvement. He was clearly doing a lot better, even if he didn't know why. Could I have left it there? Sure. But I don't half-ass my charity cases.

He greeted me when I walked in, but today I deflected his attentions. "I'm just browsing today. I meant to ask you, though, have you ever considered OnlyFans?" My words hid the casting of a compulsion spell.

He blushed, and slipped his hands in his pockets. "Oh, I don't think I quite have the body for that... but thank you, sir. Let me know if you need anything."

To his credit, Jake's former body was pretty unremarkable. I say former because I cast another delayed transformation on him. This time I gave him 20% more muscle mass, a deeper voice, and increased his self-confidence. I also took a few more years off, for good measure.

The next day, I was able to find his OnlyFans account under his name. It was tempting to increase his muscle mass further, but doing so would risk breaking the mental shroud I cast over him. Besides, massive muscles and a bronze tan often went hand in hand, and I would hate to ruin his beautifully pale skin.

No, better to leave well enough alone. Otherwise I'd be casting minor spells on him for weeks. Jake was no longer struggling through life due to his disheveled appearance, and that's what mattered. Another Christmas Miracle, crafted by yours truly.

-------------------------------------------------

Want to read more by this author? Dicked (Over) by a Demon by Nolan Sempers, for sale on Amazon.

[spaceshipellie]

hey!! i was hoping you could do an fluff fic of ellie inspired by the ethel lyric: “home’s not home unless you’re there”

love your writing btw!! and this request idea is GENIUS!!

“home’s not home unless you’re there”

pairing: ellie x reader

summary/warnings: tlou au, sickeningly sweet fluff

thank you so much!! <3 this is short as hell and i’m sorry if it’s bad or cringe, every time i try to write atm i feel like it sucks 🫠

your life before jackson had been entirely splintered, never being able to stay in one location long enough to settle. but it had been two years since you had arrived at the commune and now you not only had a warm bed to sleep in every night, but you had friends that felt like family and a girlfriend who made you realise home was sometimes a person.

you had a doting smile on your face as you looked at her sleeping face, illuminated dark blue in the early morning light. you treasured the moments where it felt like you were the only two people on earth. the moments where you could forget the decaying world around you. where you could forget about the fact that she had to get up for patrol in a couple of hours and any time could be the time where she doesn’t make it back.

you admired and counted the freckles on her cheeks in order to push those thoughts away. you noticed the little crease in between her slightly furrowed brows and softly brushed your thumb over it, her face immediately softening at your touch. it made you smile. ellie may sometimes struggle to verbalise her thoughts and feelings but the way she always responded to your touch was enough for you to know how much you comforted her.

her body subconsciously shifted closer to you and your smile faded into an expression more earnest. you couldn’t get enough of her. you still longed for her even though she was already yours. everything about surviving in this life had always felt disjointed and gruelling, but having her by you, with her ridiculous puns and endless space facts made it so much easier. you lightly brushed a piece of hair behind her ear and confessed for the first time, barely above a whisper.

“i love you.”

you had never said it before but you’d felt it for a long time. you hadn’t planned on saying it now, when she was unconscious and unable to hear it but the compulsion took over you. besides, as embarrassing as it was to admit to yourself, you felt like you needed to practice. you had never been in love before and despite it feeling beautiful it was also terrifying. it had been eating away at you to tell her but there was a tiny part of you that was worried she wouldn’t–

your heart dropped when you saw a small smile break on her lips, which was shortly followed by a giggle.

“ellie, are you awake?”

her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at you, fully beaming now. you looked at her with slight panic.

“did you…did you hear me?”

she nodded and you quickly turned over and hid your face in your hands. you felt her arm snake around you and her body press against your back.

“don’t be embarrassed,” she said against your bare shoulder, leaving a kiss on it.

“shut up,” you groaned, a smile however evident in your voice.

she squeezed you closer to her and started peppering kisses all over you until you laughed when she reached your cheek. even though you couldn’t see her, her face was impossibly close to yours as she whispered, “i love you too.”

[yandereunsolved]

Dissect Me, Doctor - ,, yandere JPM with a psychologist reader

cw(s): yandere themes, dismemberment, suggestive themes, (James) necrophilia, noncon touching, cannibalism, mention of reader having breakdowns & panic attacks

✧ James found you by God's hand one fateful day. You could say it was more than a mere coincidence, eh? He had just finished killing one of the hotel guests. He was about to call Miss Evers in to clean up the mess when he spotted something sticking out of the dead gentleman's breast pocket. He plucked the card out of your pocket and read it allowed, 'Doctor...' His curiosity was the least bit piqued. Psychologists weren't exactly popular in the 1930s. The true study of the mind hadn't emerged, but James had always lived to study humans. To study their fight or flight instinct, how their bodies react to various torture methods, and how fear affects the human psyche. Perhaps he has found someone who shares his fondness for such things. It would be a great way to meet someone new. Considering Elizabeth refuses to speak with him, he has grown desperate. Not even defiling his killings tapered his already suppressed desires. 

✧ He got Sally to teach him how to use this magic witch named 'Wi-fi' who owns the internet—or something like that. Most new technology is just rubbish used to get people to make inauthentic connections. Although perhaps just this once, it can be used for the betterment of his temperament. He has Sally schedule an initial appointment at the hotel. Sally uses the excuse that James is bedridden and terribly ill (non-contagious), but he hates telehealth and just wants someone to talk to in person. You were skeptical because of the rumors surrounding The Cortez, but you were in desperate need of another client, and he was willing to pay extra—a lot extra.

✧ You had your first session in his room, and you immediately got strange vibes from him. He wasn't ill, that was for sure. Perhaps he was a little pale, but he probably hasn't gotten enough sun or vitamin D lately. He was even smoking! He was sitting all relaxed on a couch, dressed up in 1930s-esque attire, with a cane leaning against his lap. He introduced himself as James Patrick March, and you immediately understood why you were called. He either has a personality disorder or is a compulsive liar. Perhaps both. You asked him simple questions, such as his real name and when he was born. You were only getting nonsensical answers. He could not have been born in the late 1800's or early 1900's; that is ridiculous! 

James only felt himself grow hotter with each question you asked. It was like a fire had been lit beneath his skin, and he needed to put it out. Then you asked the question that really got him going.

"Since you refuse to use your real name, I'll just call you Mr. March. How is your personal life going? Are you currently sexually active?"

"I have peculiar interests and refined tastes. How do you modern people phrase it? 'Where there is a hole there is a goal'?"

✧ With that astounded expression on your face, he feels his urges compell him to end this lovely conversation early. That look would look perfect on your dead corpse. He takes the sabre out of his cane and tries to slit your throat; he narrowly misses. Somehow, you unlock his room door and bolt through the hallways. How promising. He walks through the winding hallways slowly. You scramble to find the exit, and he struggles with not just outright chasing you through the maze. No, he must preserve the hunt. After what feels like an eternity to you—only eleven minutes in real time—you finally trip over a stair and hit your head on the railing. Talented fox. You nearly escaped to the lobby. You are too much of a challenge to let go so easily. He's going to keep you to get his release. In more ways than one. 

✧ You wake up in the middle of the night in the same room as before. It's freezing, and your clothes are nowhere to be found. Your head is pounding, and you are barely able to breathe. James drugged you with some cocktail of drugs—some legal, most not. You feel blades ghosting your body. You feel them just barely slicing into your skin. It must be sleep paralysis, you rationalize. Something whispers sweet nothings into your ears. You are barely able to discern what those words are. 

"You taste... a dream."

"Never leave."

"The best prey— never leave me."

✧ You drift off once again before groggily waking up in a different room. You are still in the Cortez, now in room seventy-four. You feel much different today, weighed down and yet free. You don't have any marks on you that would indicate you were harmed last night. You feel the need to escape, but you are also incredibly confused. A maid is in your room, setting down a new set of clothes. She explains that you passed out after you tripped on a stair while leaving the session early. You accuse her of helping the strange man you interviewed who tried to kill you. She chuckles and says that you aren't his type. Her voice has a little bit of spite in it. That was the moment that you were introduced to Miss Evers. Quite possibly the only person who simultaneously envies you for getting all of James attention and pities you for your lack of self-awareness and intelligence in the situation.

✧ Before you are even able to shoo her off this JPM impersonator comes in your room and greets you. You are naturally apprehensive. He is naturally enthralled to see that his trophy prey has awoken. He cannot wait to just see how you react today. You try to leave and he explains that you never finished your session. You accuse him now of trying to murder you. He brushes it off and insists that you at least have breakfast with him before you leave. You are about to answer firmly when Miss Evers folding of a towel loudly snaps together. This 'James' scolds her and she gives him a doe-eyed look. Before you are even able to say no he is ushering you down the hallway in silken pajamas someone put on you while you were passed. The thought makes you shudder.

✧ You both were served a hearty and delicious breakfast. It isn't very filling to you, no matter how much you eat. It must be how queasy you are from yesterday. If it happened. Perhaps you had a mental break due to all the stress you have been through lately. You don't get a lot of time to think because you are snapped from your thoughts. This James speaks about your future together and how you will have a long and fufilling relationship. He asks you to give him a psyche evaluation. When you say no, he subtly threatens you with the thought of not paying because you didn't actually fill his full session. You reluctantly agree.

✧ He's both incredibly frustrated and intrigued by your persistence. How many times must he explain to you that he isn't a 'cosplayer' or someone with a personality disorder. He is simply the great James Patrick March. No matter. It will make you even more fun to play with.

"Your delusions, doctor, are clouding your mind. So I suppose I will have to make you see the truth—one way or another."

He sets up small 'challenges' to see if you can pass them. He wants to test how long your mental fortitude will hold up. 

✧ The first of those was dismembering himself in front of your very eyes. He does it multiple times, and they are all random. He will pluck his eye out and stir it in his tea. He will cut open his chest and stuff his organs into your suitcase. He will remove whatever is covering his neck and finger from his suicide wound. He asks if you would like to feel it, stroke it, touch it, or play with it.

"Doctor, I understand you only deal with the human mind, but would you like to feel this and assess if it is real? Do you believe me now?"

He will stab himself in the heart during one of your sessions and tell you that this is what you do to him. In the most extreme cases, if he isn't getting your coveted attention, he will take himself apart limb by limb and place them on your bed like a cross.

✧ You begin to come to terms with the fact that, at least, this man is psychotic. Perhaps not a ghost, but definitely a killer and wickedly sadistic. You try so many of the phones in the hotel, but so many seem not to work. You try to find your way out once again, but you seem to be trapped within these walls. Which comes to one of his many other tactics: trapping you in The Cortez's hallway maze. He is able to distort the minds of his guests and make sure that they never get out. Like a rat trying to find an escape from a box maze that has no exit. He enjoys just slowly walking behind you and taking in your panic and your quick breaths when your clothing rides up on you. He is able to take a respectful peek at what he will inevitably see time and time again.

✧ He keeps you trapped in the hotel. You never even have a chance to get to the lobby. He has a nice breakfast, lunch, and dinner with you. He has his daily sessions with you. Outside of that? His torture. All of his torture. All of it. He threatens you with it subtly if you do something that he is displeased with. He'll even lock you in that death closet of his and make you stand right near the spike. Sometimes you prefer to be in there because you can hide from him. He likes it when you hide in his death traps. So he totally leaves you alone and totally just doesn't sit right outside your ability to view him.

You are coming to the point where those times when he is cordial are the times you crave. All part of his plan, of course. Although—he hopes that you will keep up the chase, he likes that fiery spirit of yours.

✧ You often find him getting release from his dead victims. You know because your relentless cycle of agony and pleasure stops. At least he doesn't force himself on you when you are awake. You end up doing your best to stay as far away as possible from him during that time. Only you always end up stumbling into the same room as him. You avert your eyes, yet he always has something cheeky to say to you.

"Ngh—darling, darling, wait! This.... this could be us. This could be me. You and me. Nothing could be a replacement for how your flesh feels against mine."

He always turns around and gives you one of those godforsaken winks of his.

✧ That isn't the only time his victims come into play. You are always suspicious of the food he serves you. It's either drugged or the meat could be made from his victims. You first learned that the hard way. You were served meatloaf, and James called in manloaf. He stated that it was made in this very hotel by the very guest who was trying to help you leave. You wanted them so bad, you can have them—in your stomach.

✧ Not even the Countess is able to help. Not that she tries. She is too busy luring more men in. She's forgotten about James mostly, except for the betrayal. She gives you a few warnings and some caution when she can. You are almost like one of her children. Perhaps she would help you if you really were in need. Maybe.

✧ You still get those sensations in your sleep. The feeling of fingertips ghosting on your figure. How the sheets seem to slip off your body. A warm presence keeps you close throughout the night. It often manifests in such strange dreams. It feels like James's thoughts are being injected into your own mind. You dream of him against you—sometimes he is brutally murdering you, and in others he is sensually caressing you. He always seems to tease and taunt you with those tantalizing images in your mind.

✧ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ — You often have panic attacks and breakdowns because of him. Your heart rate quickens as sweat rolls down your body. Your legs shake and give in. The entire hotel seems to spin around you. You have to seek him out for your own comfort. It's so twisted and vile. You can feel bile rising in the back of your throat when it happens. You almost have to crawl on your hands and knees to reach him. Yet, it feels like heaven. His skin is so soft and supple. His suit is always made of the most comfortable materials. His body is always so cool to the touch. In those moments, your body melts into his. That is, until your mind stops its dissociation long enough to realize the trauma you were going through. You are falling for him—a classic case of Stockholm syndrome. You couldn't stand for this. You need to fight against this, against him.

✧ Unfortunately, your non-belief in ghosts stops when you see multiple people you thought were dead trying to warn you. You see your patient, who was killed in this very hotel. They tell you that they're so happy to see you. They are so happy you are here with them. You have to put on your therapist hat again and calm them down. It all clicks. Other people you thought were guests here were warning you. You are being oddly welcomed into the space. The others are cautious of your presence and afraid to upset the owner, the one who holds so much power over them. That strange being that seemed to flicker in and out of your peripheral occasionally. You finally make peace with the fact that James Patrick March is indeed a ghost. You really do need to escape here.

✧ You steal the hotel's shipping schedule for their toiletries and linens. You make a plan to escape. You think you are so clever, and it really makes James hot under his white buttoned collar. He lets you think that you are so much more astute than him. It makes him a little desperate, but he won't show it. He needs your touch so badly. He needs you to love him so badly. He needs you to be his little trophy victim. He needs you to help him chase his highs. He needs you. He needs you. He needs you. You, only you.

✧ He confesses his undying adoration for you and clings to your waist as you try to walk out. He sighs and tries one more tactic before you step out the door. He promises to tell you the entire truth. You are caught off guard by this, and your hand slips off the door. He leads you to his trophy room and shows you his 10 Commandment killings. He directs you to the corner, where your body lies. You are covered in wounds that have long since dried out. Your eyes are lifeless. You have his name etched across your naked chest. You scream, shout, and sob. James gently holds you and soothes you even as you thrash, kick, and gnaw at him.

"You've been trapped here the entire time. Since that night."

As if that makes it any better. You aren't that stupid. You could connect the dots—lack of appetite, coldness, the odd sensations, everything. You are stuck with this monster for all eternity.

"Hmm, yes! I saw you and just knew that I had to have you. Have you gotten my diagnosis yet, my love? It's lovesickness, and your body is the cure."

.ೃ࿐ -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- .ೃ࿐

⟿ taglist: @coentinim @bluerthanvelvet444 @cxndiedvi0lets @doll3tt33 @lacucarachapisser @etheral-moon @fear-is-truth @marchsfreakshow @girlyfart @nahoyasboyfriend

.ೃ࿐ -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- .ೃ࿐

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Hi everyone,

As I said earlier, I wanted to post more about ADHD burnout. I found an article that explained it pretty well. This excerpt is going to be long, so I apologize in advance:

ADHD Burnout

What is ADHD Burnout?

It’s possible that you’ve heard of Autistic burnout; however, ADHDers have a unique experience of burnout. Symptoms of ADHD burnout more broadly include:

Lack of motivation

Inability to concentrate

Guilt

Depression

Anxiety

Poor productivity

Irritability

Cynicism

The overlap of symptoms and comorbid conditions can make it difficult to identify when ADHDers are truly struggling with burnout, though.

ADHD burnout is often something a little deeper. It refers to the cycle of overcommitting and overextending that leads to fatigue in people with ADHD. It involves taking on too many tasks and commitments, and then the subsequent exhaustion that happens when we’re unable to fulfill all of our obligations.

Why do people with ADHD struggle with burnout?

1. We’re overcompensating and overcommitting

Growing up, many ADHDers experienced the crushing weight of expectation. Whether it was caregivers or educators, we were often told that we weren’t trying hard enough. It felt like we were always just shy of reaching our full potential.

In actuality, we were being asked to function like neurotypical children, and without adequate support for our ADHD brains and executive dysfunction struggles. This is where many of us internalized the idea that we were lazy, careless, or unintelligent.

These false beliefs can lead to overcompensation, in which we compulsively try to please people and make up for these “shortcomings” we think we have. We’re constantly striving, though the goal posts keep moving on us.

This tendency to people-please can be carried into our adulthood, and is a recipe for overexertion. It also makes it difficult to admit that we’re struggling, because we don’t want to let others down. This relentless effort to appear neurotypical is often referred to as “ADHD masking,” and can be a source of real fatigue for people with ADHD.

2. We feel guilty for resting

When we’re already combating a stereotype of laziness, many of us feel guilty about resting. It can feel easier to be in constant motion (whether we experience hyperactivity or not!) because it feels safer to be doing something than risk the judgment that can come with doing “nothing.”

We might even believe that if we were to allow ourselves to rest, we would never get anything done, because we would struggle to get started again (task initiation is a big struggle for us). The irony is that denying yourself rest is the quickest route to exhaustion, and can exacerbate ADHD symptoms. It can be hard to pump the brakes and practice rest when there are so many negative associations with it.

After a lifetime of being told to “try harder,” it can feel counterintuitive—sometimes impossible—to try less and rest more

3. We struggle to recognize our limits and set boundaries

Part of executive dysfunction means that we have trouble sequencing, initiating, and organizing our tasks — which are all symptoms of ADHD. This also means we struggle to estimate how much time and effort something will take, making it easy to overcommit by accident. We may also struggle with setting boundaries.

As people-pleasers, we were discouraged from having boundaries at a young age. We may struggle to say “no” for fear of disappointing others or being rejected (something we’re already sensitive to anyway; this is known as rejection sensitive dysphoria).

As we accumulate more and more tasks, it can begin to feel unmanageable, leading to the dreaded overwhelm-shutdown. This is a freeze response that can happen when we’re unable to begin or complete a task. This “stuck” feeling can exacerbate our anxiety and make it difficult to move forward.

How to avoid ADHD burnout:

There are some golden rules for preventing burnout that I think are crucial for ADHDers to remember. Here are a few:

1. Affirm your self-worth

Your worth is not dependent upon what you give to people, and your sole purpose in life isn’t to make everyone but yourself happy. As the saying goes, “Don’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm.” You are inherently valuable, regardless of how useful, productive, or helpful you are to others.

2. Practice saying “no” without apologizing

You can’t be everything to everyone, and your capacity is not limitless, no matter what your brain tells you. Give yourself full permission to say “no, I can’t,” “I don’t have time for that,” “I’m not available at that time,” and every other variation on that. You may disappoint someone, sure!

But you aren’t responsible for managing other people’s emotions.

3. Overestimate how much time something will take

This is a general rule that I find quite helpful. Take the amount of time you think something will take—and double it. It may feel absurd at first, but it’s better to overestimate than to underestimate, and this will help you get a stronger sense of your limitations.

4. Commit to rest

Notice I’m saying “commit to rest” and not “practice self-care.”

Some of us (certainly not me…) have turned self-care into another set of expectations we feel the need to fulfill. Let that go.

Instead, practice: laying down, daydreaming, deep breathing, and anything else that helps you reset.

5. Ask for help when you need it

It’s okay to struggle, and it’s okay to ask for support when you do struggle—whether that's therapy, your colleagues, an ADHD coach or a manager at work.

Workplace accommodations and school accommodations can also make a huge difference.

6. Drop the mask

Many neurodiverse individuals try to mask their ADHD and/or autism by not letting others see them sweat—but this doesn’t allow us the opportunity to be helped and supported when we need it most.

You deserve every resource you need to thrive—don’t convince yourself that you have to do this thing alone.

As always, the full article will be below if anyone wants to read it.

[zykamiliah]

i don't think we talk enough about the two most mysterious characters in the whole novel:

the author and the reader, airplane shooting towards the sky and shen yuan.

yes, we know a lot about Airplane and Shen Yuan's lives post-transmigration, and we got a few details of their first lives, but those details are so scarce that to this day we still theorize about what was going on with them. we don't even know Airplane's birth name.

what we know is how different their economic and family situations were: shen yuan had a loving family and enjoyed the life of a rich second-gen, while airplane's parents divorced, he was unloved and neglected and struggled to make a living.

airplane lived off his novel, and shen yuan lived to consume it.

and i think that this happens because this two characters hide themselves behind The Story. Author and Reader use the Story to forget about themselves; or at least the version of themselves that they suppress, because there's a lot of underprocessed and internalized trauma and pain associated to it.

this is much more obvious in shen yuan, as his emotional repression has been talked about a lot already. even after the extras there are a lot of things that he'll simply shove into a mental box to never touch them again, but the same goes for airplane. I'd argue his case is worse, because his two lives have been so difficult.

airplane submerged himself in the world of his novel while he was writing, and then literally when he was forced to live in it.

escaping into the novel, first figuratively and then literally, was necessary for airplane to keep himself alive. his novel allowed him to live and gave him a goal, something to live for and be proud of. he made a story that was wildly popular and that had lots of people talking about it. pidw was such a big hit it inspired more novels that followed on its steps. he was so drunk on the attention, enjoyed it and craved it so much, he'd go to read what his fans talked about in the forums.

this is the way the author escaped into the story, because the story gave him money and a twisted form of adoration and attention, the only he could aspire for.

there's a very good meta by @/inefectualdemon about how PIDW could be seen as a reflection of Airplane's traumas, personality and worldview, and how you can infer a lot about how he portrays this characters and their relationships with each other.

shen yuan too participated in this form of escapism, just from the other side of the equation; it's not normal to read a novel in 20 days and get so obsessed with you die ragging about it. why is a guy who seems to have everything he needs, a loving family and a stable life, losing himself into the world of a novel he claims to hate?

i'm of the opinion that shen yuan's issues have to do with his lack of purpose in life, but i'd also argue that they may be related to his blatant sexual repression that derives the extreme compulsive heterosexuality and homophobia we see reflected in his narration. he's obsessed with sex, but with "straight" sex, so it's okay to read about it. it's okay to think about dick if it's in the context of heterosexual sex. it's okay to think about the protagonist's attractiveness and beauty if he immediately tags it with a "that's why women fall for him".

so, going back to the main point. i think that, just as the world of pidw reflects airplane's inner world, the way shen yuan relates to it and projects himself into it and its characters, says a lot about his elusive inner world.

(it's getting long, so continue under the cut)

at the end of the novel, shen yuan thinks that pidw, with all its plotholes filled and backstories revealed, is just tragedy after tragedy; for airplane, this is just how the world works from his point of view. there's no end to the tragedy, there's no happiness simply because he himself has never experienced it.

shen yuan's solution to the tragedy and cruelness of the world is kindness and understanding; airplane's is apathy.

another example: shen yuan admires yue qingyuan for his dedication, reliability and kindness; he sees him as good old brother, subconsciously projecting and relating to him in the same way he did with his real older brothers. this is not to say his feelings are not genuine; they are, but they arise from his own need to have that type of siblings relationship again. that's why he's so invested in cang qiong, among other things.

but how does airplane view yue qingyuan? a kind fool, someone who's easy to take advantage of. yue qi is the boy that failed to save his most important person (for a good reason, apparently) and yue qingyuan is the adult that allows disciples to be abused to assuage his own guilt.

the way shen yuan treats kids and teenagers, the way he perceives the women as aesthetically beautiful, and distant from himself, unless they fall in the category of family. the way he makes a point to comment on the appearance of every man he meets, specially the ones that reflect his own repressed tastes.

shen yuan care a lot about everything, from the plants to the monster to the people in pidw; he struggles trying to force himself to believe they are not real, that this are just novel characters, and fails every time (well, except when it came to binghe's agency, ironically). airplane is the complete opposite. almost everything in pidw was his own creation, and he can live through the tragedy and death unperturbed (well, with a couple of exceptions), unless this one character he got attached to gets in danger, in which case he'll do everything to save them. mobei-jun is the character that cracks airplane's shell of apathy. he cares so much about him it almost gave him a heart attack.

pre-transmigration, airplane escaped into his novel out of need; post-transmigration, he's apathetic, sometimes even resentful of his fate, but mostly doesn't care unless it's related to his own survival.

pre-transmigration, shen yuan view everyone as characters that served a purpose in the story; tropes and archetypes. but post-transmigration, as early as the demon invasion, he is incapable of viewing the characters as fictional, and is deeply affected by what happens to them.

we joke about svsss being fanfiction of pidw, but if we look deeper into it, isn't fanfiction a reflection and projection of the fic writer, a way to reinvent the story in a way that resonates with you? don't we sometimes have a love-hate relationship with a popular media that inspires both admiration and criticism in us?

this was a very long-winded way of saying how intrigued i am by airplane and shen yuan's lives pre-transmigration, the things that made them into Airplane and Peerless Cucumber, the way both Author and Reader escape and project themselves into the story, and how this is a reflection of who they are.

if you read until the end, thank you! :D and let me know what you think.

[goldenponcho]

Milkbones

So I finally got my first chapter done! And I had a BLAST writing all the Prime Assets interacting. They’re all such fun and hilarious characters to write; they practically tell you what they wanna say themselves!

Chapter 2

Chapter 1: New Pet

Light swirled in nauseating, arrhythmic pulses, and the amorphous movement before his eyes created the feeling of tumbling in a laundromat dryer. Confusion and disorientation was all he knew, hardly a thought capable of forming in his head.

Floating…tumbling…weightless…as if consumed by water. The first full thought he could conjure was ironically typical of his deep-seeded fixations:

‘Am I bein’ born?’

Consciousness rushed over him in an overwhelming wave as he willed his arms to grab onto something.

‘No… Stop! FUCK! I don’t wanna GO yet, mommy!’

Paralyzed, he was helpless to the rippling contractions that propelled him forward.

‘Fuckin’ STOP, momma! I don’t wanna LEAVE!’

Just as there was no stopping birth, there was no stopping the staggering tide of awareness, and before his burning eyes could open, he compulsively jerked to brace himself from the sensation of falling.

Lights seared his vision as Franco Barbi returned to the waking world with a yelped “FUCK!” Appropriate. He liked to think it had been his first word.

The murmur of an unknown number of voices was the next thing he could make out, followed by blown out figures behind the light stinging his eyes.

“The fuckin’ shit did you cunts DO to me?!” He squinted his bulgy eyes to adjust to the light, but he couldn’t pin a face. Instead, a male voice addressed him.

“Relax, Mr. Barbi, the sedative will wear off shortly.”

“Who is’at?!” he snapped, “You want my Berluti up your ass, ya son of a whore?!”

His threats were ignored as his quadruple vision became triple vision which slowly became only double. He also realized he was not only currently deprived of his “Berlutis”; he was also entirely naked.

“Hey! Where the fuck is my SUIT!”

“Vitals are returning to normal.” That voice was different. Definitely female. Franco struggled to escape the surgical table he was strapped to, breath coming in heaving snarls.

The male surgeon finally came into view, but didn’t give him even a glance through his protective goggles as he spoke, “Do you know who you are, sir?”

Franco wrinkled his brow in an enraged sneer, “Do I- motherfucker, do YOU fuckin’ know who I fuckin’ am?! I’m FRANCO FUCKIN’ BARBI!! Do you KNOW what happens to bitches who-“

“There’s no need for a fight, Mr. Barbi; we will be finished soon enough,” the surgeon never took his line of sight from the clip board where he was jotting down notes.

“Ooh, there’s ALWAYS a need for a fight, asshole! Get me the fuck off this table before I make YOU as fuckin’ ugly as ME!!”

The surgeon looked at him for about two seconds, any expression going unknown as his face was entirely covered, then he was back to the clipboard. Franco finally took note of the female doctor to his left who was typing on an odd looking keyboard.

“Do you know WHERE you are, Mr. Barbi?” the surgeon continued.

“Same place I’ve been for TEN FUCKIN’ YEARS, ya piece a SHIT!!” The veins in his oversized temple were nearly throbbing, and he violently shook against his restraints again with a snarl. Neither doctor gave any indication they were at all affected by his outbursts.

‘Cunts! They’re all even more fucked in the head than I am!’

“You may take him to examination, Miss Warren.”

A blond nurse Franco hadn’t known was there came into his view with the click of heels, a medical mask over her mouth the same as the doctors. Her eyes exuded a clear sense of boredom, and the smacking sound and movement of her jaw suggested she was chewing gum.

“Urine sample?” The monotone confirmed her boredom.

“Not necessary,” the surgeon shook his head, “We’ve already acquired a sample.”

Franco jerked to raise his upper half from the table, “The FUCK’d you say?!”

“Cooome on, Mr. Barbi, let’s get this over with…” The nurse stepped around the table above his head and began to wheel him out of the room and into the hall.

Franco growled with one last thrash. When he finally dropped back to the slab with panting breaths, he found the only consolation to this humiliating ordeal. The most prominent thing in his line of sight when he looked up were the nurse’s boobs. His crooked teeth clenched into a sinister grin.

“Nice bazooms, sweetness! Hows about a little sip?!”

The nurse released an exaggerated sigh. He couldn’t see from his perspective, but she rolled her eyes. “They told me you’d act up…”

“Ohoho! I’m actin’ up, alright! Maybe you should help baby BEHAVE…”

“You’ll behave, Mr. Barbi,” she finally glared down at him, clear disgust in her voice AND her eyes, “What other choice you got?” The look he gave her was a half sneer, half pout as they finally entered another very similar room. “And you wouldn’t be giving me much to work with, now would you?” She glanced to his crotch.

There was a second of silence in which he followed her gaze to the tragically flaccid cock that rested against his leg before Franco thrusted himself up towards her in a rage. “You bitch WHORE!! I’ll blast your fuckin’ TITS off!!”

But she was out the door before his threats had even left him, and he was now alone in the now noticeably chilly room. Cold. Just what he needed…

Wait…”blast”?!

“Lupara…” his bulgy eyes bulged wider, “LUPARA!! Where the FUCK is my LUPARA?!!!” His yells echoed in the nearly empty room. “LUPAAARAAAAAA!!! WAAAAAAH!! EEEEAAAAAAAAAAH!!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!” A gasp and rasped breathing. “AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

“O-KAY! Mr. BARBIIII! Let’s get you all checked out, here, huh?!” A male doctor with large glasses grinned down at him as he entered the room. This man was MUCH too jolly, and Franco personally found it revolting.

“The FUCK are you so peachy keen about, LECCACULO?! WHERE’S my fuckin’ Lupara?! What did you fucks DO to ‘er?!!”

“It’s a nice morning, wouldn’t ya say?!” The man’s lower face was, as usual, covered with a mask, but the shit-eating grin was beyond obvious. “Don’t you worry your little…” he glanced over Franco’s cranium, “…HEAD about it. Your gun is in saaaafe hands.”

“SAFE HANDS, MY DICK!! YOU get my Lupara back in MY fuckin’ hand, or I’ll make RAGU out of your FACE!!!”

“Hohohoooh! Little feisty, there, CHAMP!” The man flipped a switch, and the table Franco was on began to tilt upward, “You’ll have your precious Lupara soooon enough.”

Franco liked being baby-talked to by WOMEN, but the tone this MAN had with him was more infuriating than he could endure. Plus, he pronounced “Lupara” as “Loo-pair-a”.

“Noooow,” the doctor blew into the wrist of a latex glove before stretching it over his hand, “I’ll be needing you to COUGH for me!” *SNAP!*

The quantity of expletives that exited Franco Barbi’s snaggle toothed mouth within that room alone must have set a record for himself, never mind anyone else on the planet.

The man was nearly hyperventilating to catch his breath after cursing the doctor out for the thoroughly invasive examination. The shit-eating grin was still on his face as he was once again wheeled out to another location by a new brunette nurse, who he couldn’t even be bothered to sexually harass. He was FINALLY put in his old suit, which had been cleaned, but still had plenty of blood stains smattered across it. The shoes had cleaned up surprisingly nicely, and his bandolier and pacifier were also returned to him.

He had bitten down on the nipple of the pacifier, sorely needing to calm himself, then immediately threw it at a guard on the other side of the bars he was behind.

“S’fuckin’ hard as a ROCK, motherfickin’ COCKSUCKER!! GET ME A NEW ONE!!!”

The death stare showed the guard’s annoyance, but he took the thing and left him to himself.

“AND IF IT AIN’T HERE IN TWO HOURS, YOU’LL GET A LUPARA UP THE ASS AND YOUR GUTS IN YOUR LAP!!!”

He huffed, pacing restlessly a couple of times before releasing a strangled roar of outrage and front kicking the cell door with a deafening clatter.

“YOU CUNTS CAN’T LEAVE ME HERE!! I’LL SUCK ALL YOU BITCHES DRY AND THROW YOUR RANCID HUSKS OFF THE DOCK!!!” He stepped back slowly, grunting and huffing before dropping to the bench along the back wall.

As he was finally left for a while with no doctors or guards to pester him, the situation finally truly set in. Ten years of this shit, and NOW they decided to fuck with him like this? What was the purpose? To see when he’d finally off an actual staff member?

Left inside his own mind, anger quickly turned to self pity, and then to depression. The horrible tightening in his chest and throat quickly gave way to genuine, hiccuping sobs. “Fuckin’ laughin’ at me like I’m some kind a’ JOKE!!” He wiped at his bloodshot eyes, voice shaking with emotion that he DESPISED that he felt, “FUCK you!!!”

He had completely lost track of time. It could have been five minutes or it could have been forty five before there was a click and a loud, piercing squeak right next to him. He jumped at the sudden break in the silence, jerking his head from his palms to see a doorway he hadn’t known was there open to his left.

He thought about just remaining seated where he was, not going through that door simply out of spite. He knew where that choice ended. The guards would come in, poke at him with sharp prods or beat him with something blunt and heavy. It wasn’t that beatings weren’t par for the course through his life, but a fight he had no chance of winning wasn’t worth wasting his time. He sputtered a sigh and stood.

Before he could even take a step, an abrasive screech ripped through his eardrums.

“GYAWD DAMN DEMONOLOGIST SHITS!!! YOU HEATHEN, MOTHERFUCKIN’, PINKO BITCHEEEEEEESS!!!”

Franco’s stomach sank. Oh, fucking shit…not THIS guy! ANYTHING but THIS fucking guy!

“Oh, officer! Those nice scientists are only doing what’s best to help us protect the CHILDREN.”

“Yeah, think of the children! Watch your fuckin’ LANGUAGE, JEEEETTTHHH!!”

Momma milkers and her goose dad too. What fun…

Franco rounded the doorframe. The space looked like a living room or perhaps a lounge. There were upholstered chairs and a couch, and a MASSIVE television set was against the side wall, so big it sat directly on top of an ornate, oriental rug.

Franco straightened himself, smoothing out his stained suit before strolling into the room as if the day had been just hunky-dory.

“Afternoon, SLUTS!” He took great pleasure in the growl from Leland Coyle as he saw who else he’d be stuck with. “What’s a guy gotta do ta get a drink around here, eh?!”

“AW, fuckin’…HORSE SHEEIT!!” Leland bellowed, “What BITCH let this ugly, little, midget WOP in here ta shit on my day AAAGAAIN?!!”

“Hey, PIG!” Franco pointed a stumpy, gloved finger at the sergeant, “That’s MR. TOP Wop ta yous! I ain’t exactly CRANKED to be here EITHER, so why don’cha shove a BOOT in it?!”

The two began a back and forth as Phyllis Flutterman could only watch.

“A cop and a baby havin’ a DICK measuring contest…that’s just patheeetic.”

She was about to reply to her “father” when she noticed a light flash above the door she had originally walked into the room from. There was a long, black sign the had lit up “MOTHER” in red LED lights. She noticed for the first time a symbol on the door. A rubber duck with large, human teeth.

“Daddy? Is that supposed to be…YOU?”

“If it is, it’s SHIT! It ain’t got ya HAND up it’s ass! HaHA!! HaHA!! HaHA!!”

She continued to the door next to it she had seen the sergeant come through. The LED sign read “SARGE” in blue, and the image was a bolt of lightning with a downward pointing arrow on the end, like what one would see on an electrical hazard sign.

On to the small man-baby’s door, lit up in white was the word “BAMBINO”, and the symbol was the pink pacifier he normally wore but was mysteriously not present today.

There was a fourth door…

Phyllis stared at that door as she tried to get the other two Prime Assets’ attention. “Um…excuse me? Boys?!”

She heard their continued screaming match and turned to see Leland lifting Franco by the collar, Franco’s foot planted roughly into the larger man’s thigh and kicking at his ribs with the other.

“Gentlemen?!”

It was no use.

“EVERYBODY, SHUT the FUCKUP!!!”

The two froze, heads turning to where Dr. Futterman had erupted from.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your discussion, gentlemen,” Phyllis spoke calm and sweetly, “but there are FOUR doors here.”

Leland’s nose scrunched in annoyance, “What hysterical pig shit are you on about, WOMAN?!”

Franco turned his head to take in the previously unnoticed details of the doors. Slowly, realization came to him.

“No, she’s right!” He pointed toward the symbol on his door, and Leland finally released his grip on Franco’s lapels, who stumbled to stand in front of it.

“Fuckin’ Bambino…” he spat the name and pointed to the pacifier on it, “That’s my door. “Mother”…”Sarge”…” His finger hovered to point to the fourth door.

The symbol was clearly the face of a dog; pointed, perked ears; sharp teeth; and a spiked collar at the neck. But the rectangular sign at the top was currently blank.

“Aw, Lord A’mighty! All we need is ANOTHER sick sonuvaBITCH ta defile this fine establishment!”

Franco’s large forehead wrinkled, “Makes sense, I s’pose. S’been a New York minute since they nabbed ME for this shithole. Surprised they hadn’t added some sorry bitch to their collection sooner.”

“Bitch is right…” Leland removed the cigar stub from his mouth, breathing out smoke, “Symbol’s a DOG!” He put the stub out over the orange image, leaving a black circle where the nose would be.

The corner of Franco’s mouth contorted into a smirk, “Looks like WE’RE gettin’ a new PET!”

He couldn’t help be a little happy about it. Finally, a change of pace! Poor bastard probably had no idea what was COMING to him.

“If I have to clean PISS of my dentist chair, I’M gonna be PISSED!”

The buzz of electricity interrupted Dr, Futterman, and the three Primes fixed their gazes on the blank sign as it flashed and lit up in purple.

“Beethoven?” Phyllis read the label aloud.

There was a moment of silence as the criminals attempted to make sense of it.

Franco gave a shrug, “Guessin’ our new puppy likes classical music…”

Leland snarled, “Uugh! An ARTSY FARTSY type. Pinko TRASH in its most pesTIFerous form…”

“Well…this is just SPLENDID!” Phyllis placed a hand to her overly endowed chest, “The children will just ADORE a new puppy!”

Leland and Franco locked eyes for a moment, Leland’s face SIGNIFICANTLY more vexed than Franco’s, and Leland sighed raggedly.

“Well where IS the pussy pooch?! We’re gunna have ta put a SHOCK collar on ‘im so ‘e knows who’s BOSS!”

The grin on Franco’s face was sadistic, “Baby ain’t ready ta give up his MILK just yet…but he wouldn’t say no to some fresh MEAT!”

Franco’s prayers were answered as the locks to door number four clicked. The three assets stood transfixed as the door unlatched and slowly opened with a metallic screech.

The door widened ajar and gaped into nothingness. The three didn’t move, squinting to make anything out in the inky black inside. After nearly ten seconds of tense stillness, a dark silhouette crept forward.

Italian translations:

Berluti - expensive, Italian shoe brand

Leccaculo - ass licker

Also, as I was writing, I pictured the jolly doctor with the glasses as Phil Hartman in Jingle All the Way.

[mlove44lh]

Don´t hurt yourself

Chapther 5 - Emptiness

Masterlist

Previously chapter

Warnings: mention of cheating, angst, swearing,

Words: 3.561

“God was in the room when the man said to the woman, "I love you so much. Wrap your legs around me. Pull me in, pull me in, pull me in." Sometimes when he'd have her nipple in his mouth, she'd whisper, "Oh, my God." That, too, is a form of worship.”

"He's here.” I didn't see his car or the lights in our apartment on, but I'm sure of it. It's like I can still feel his presence even though he's meters away. At least that hasn't faded away yet.

The tears from the earlier breakdown are still on my face, but I'm calmer now.

"He’s better be. Now come on, I'll help you upstairs."

Alessia unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the driver's door, but I grab her arm to stop her from getting out of the car.

"No, I'm fine. Let me go alone."

"Are you crazy? Look at you, Y/n. I'm not going to..."

"I'm serious," I interrupt her. "I don't want to go home being carried. I'm not that bad."

I am feeling terrible, but she doesn't need to know how much.

Alessia stares at me for a few seconds before relenting and closing the door on her side.

"Alright, but I'll stay right here, in case you need anything throughout the night. Just to make sure you're okay."

"Go home. I've already caused you enough trouble today. I'll be fine, I promise."

We stay silent for a few seconds before she speaks again.

"You know, if you need help hiding his body, I can assist you."

I chuckle amidst the mess of tears at her comment.

"I'll let you know."

I open the car door and unbuckle my seatbelt. Alessia grabs my hand before letting me get out of the car.

"Y/n. I..." Her eyes tell me what I already know. We've always had a crazy connection where sometimes words aren't even necessary.

"I know. I'll call you when I can."

We exchange a lingering look before I finally let go of her hand and step out of the car. Alessia nods, her eyes filled with concern, and I close the door behind me.

I glance back one last time before stepping into the building. My agitation is palpable, and I can feel my whole body trembling as I wait for the elevator to arrive at the top floor apartment. I try to envision my next steps, but my mind is so muddled that I can't hold a coherent thought for more than a few seconds.

I look at my reflection in the elevator mirror and can't recognize myself through the blurry makeup and the dark bags under my eyes. Just this realization makes me want to cry again. I never thought I would reach this point, never thought it would hurt this much.

I take the key out of my bag as soon as the elevator doors open, revealing the entrance of my home. My hands tremble slightly, and I struggle a bit to place the key in the lock, but I manage to open and close the door without making too much noise. The apartment is dark, and I refrain from turning on the lights to avoid drawing attention. I take off my heels and take a few cautious steps, only to bump into the side table near the entrance with a loud thud. The sound echoes throughout the apartment, cutting through the silence of the night. I release a frustrated sigh and feel a sharp pain in my hip from the impact. I remain motionless for a moment, waiting to see if I've been noticed.

What the hell am I doing? Why am I trying to avoid being noticed by him? Why do I feel like I have to hide my current state? It's not like he doesn't know the way he left me.

The questions echo in my mind, mixed with the throbbing pain in my hip. Angrily, I throw my heels away, watching them hit the floor with a muffled clatter. So I sit on the cool living room floor, leaning against the wall. I feel the hot tears run down my face again, I feel so much that I couldn't even name it now. My crying now isn't compulsive like earlier, but I don't make myself try to hide the tears anymore, I don't care what I look like, or how Lewis is going to find me here, I'm tired, so fucking tired.

I can hear footsteps approaching, but I don't move from my spot.

Lewis appears in the room, his gaze surprised as he sees me sitting on the floor in this state. He's wearing only a sweatpants that I gave him shortly after we first met. A wave of sadness envelops me as I see the worn fabric and faded colors of this garment that I had asked him several times to throw away. But he always refused, telling me it had sentimental value.

The sight of that sweatpants is a painful reminder of how we started and where we are now.

The feeling of loss is poignant. I feel like I've lost not just Lewis, but also a part of myself. My hands tremble, and my heart clenches with the overwhelming sadness that consumes me.

Lewis looks disconcerted, unsure of what to say or do in the face of my state. His eyes fill with remorse, but the words seem to elude him. He tries to approach, but I move away.

"No!"

It's the only thing I can say. It's a plea, and he knows it, as he immediately backs away upon hearing my single word.

"Y/n, let me help you.”

There's pain in his voice, but it also sounds harsh.

"You want to help me?! When all of this is your fault?"

Lewis crouches down, getting closer to my height. I shouldn't say anything now, I'm still drunk, sad, and angry, anything that comes out of my mouth now will likely be regrettable. But I don't think I have much more to lose, so I keep letting the words flow.

"A guy bought me a drink today. A fucking dry martini.” I look at him, trying to discern any change in his expression. But Lewis remains unmoved. “And I accepted. I accepted because I realized what he wanted with it, and I wanted to try to understand. I wanted to see if I could...”

The incessant tears become more potent, and I have to focus on my breathing to maintain some semblance of calm.

"He was handsome. He thought I was beautiful too. He wanted to take me to his hotel room and fuck me." I keep my eyes fixed on Lewis. "You know, I've never been so hurt in my life, I never thought I could feel so angry at you. And even though..." Some sobs escape from me. "And even though, I couldn't even consider the idea of cheating on you.”

My head is still resting against the wall, and I don't have the strength to even maintain a posture.

"The only thing I can think of is why. What led you to do this to me? What made you come to the conclusion that I wasn't good enough and cheat on me with her? And why did you do this to me at the worst moment of my life?"

Tears well up in my eyes again as another wave of sorrow hits me.

"This isn't love, Lewis. This can't be love."

Lewis finally moves, walking towards me and helping me to get up. I don't pull away from him this time, knowing that if he doesn't take me away from here, I'll be sitting on this floor all night.

I stand up with his help, and Lewis carries me to our room, leading me to the ensuite bathroom. Tears are streaming down his face as well, but he doesn't make a sound, nor does he look directly at my face.

He let go of me to turn on the shower, and I lean against the sink counter.

He turns to look at me after the water starts flowing. With great care, he removes each piece of my clothing. I look into his eyes that avoid meeting mine, and he does everything without showing anything other than sadness.

The warm water against my skin helps me relax, even if only slightly. He leaves the bathroom and doesn't come back. I wait for his return, but there is none. The sound of the water falling prevents me from hearing much of what is happening outside the bathroom.

As the effects of the alcohol wear off, I begin to feel shame and fear creeping in.

When I finally feel calmer, I turn off the shower and step out of the stall, still feeling a bit shaky. I walk to the closet where the hanging clothes seem blurred to my swollen, tear-filled eyes. I dress myself before even thinking about what I'm going to do.

I leave the room and come face to face with his figure, sitting in one of the chairs at the dining table, seemingly waiting for me.

As I stare at him, standing still in front of the bedroom door, his expression is one of exhaustion. He looks older than he did just a day ago. His eyes are red and tears stain his face.

Despite the hurt and anger I feel, my heart clenches at the sight of Lewis in such a state. I never wanted this, but still, I feel guilty for our situation.

What Emma said is true, I was very happy with him for many years.

I never thought I would find myself in this situation. I never thought he could hurt me this much.

"Are you feeling better? Sober?" His voice comes out hoarser than usual.

"Yes," I whisper.

"Then sit. Please." He points to the chair in front of him.

I think about ignoring him, but I don't want to act as I should anymore, I want to act as I want. And now what I want is to hear what he has to say. So I comply with his request and sit in front of him. I don't think I have anything else to say to him, but I realize he has a lot to say as he looks at me again.

Lewis looks at me for some time before gathering the courage to start speaking. The first rays of sunlight begin to invade the apartment.

"It was at the Monza Grand Prix. The first race weekend since... that happened." He lowers his gaze as he mentions the last part, and I feel a shiver run through my entire body. "You stayed home. I think that was the first time in my life that I raced without caring about the result. I knew I didn't need to go that weekend; Toto had made that clear. But I don't know, I thought that if I could focus on something, I could take some of that feeling out of me. But no, I didn't focus on anything for a single second. It was a terrible weekend, and I shouldn't have gone.”

Lewis still doesn't look at me. His tension is almost palpable, and his melancholy seems more evident with each passing second.

"I felt so much anger, so much hatred towards myself. For some reason, I felt guilty for not being able to give you what you wanted, what we wanted. I could barely look at you, not because I blamed you or anything, but because I blamed myself. And I regret so much not even trying to talk to you, not forcing you to talk to me. I knew you wanted to talk. But back then, everything was so painful and confusing." He takes a few seconds to breathe before continuing. "On Sunday, my flight got delayed by a few hours, remember?” I don't answer him, just move my head down millimeters to show him I understand, and that he can proceed. “I didn't think it was worth booking another hotel room, so I decided to spend that time at the hotel bar. It was empty, almost dawn already. I just wanted that feeling inside me to go away, so I started drinking. And she showed up, all alone. I didn't know who she was, but she knew who I was, and it seemed like she knew exactly what to say.”

Lewis lifts his gaze to me, perhaps to see if I'm still following along. My body burns, the pain I feel as I listen to every word that comes out of his mouth seems to be physical. But I remain still, waiting for him to continue.

"We had some drinks. And after a few hours, she asked me to accompany her to her room. And I went. And when we got there, she asked me if I wanted to come in. And for some reason, I said yes.”

He continues to look at me, and I continue to look at him. We are sitting just inches apart, but the feeling is as if he is miles away. Until this moment, I hadn't stopped to imagine how he was able to do what he did. I wasn't aware that I needed this explanation. Although it doesn't bring me comfort, at least now I am aware, and I no longer need to speculate and hurt myself with my own imagination.

"I don't know why I did what I did. And it didn't feel right at any moment. I knew it was wrong, I mean, it wasn't out of my control or anything like that. I did what I did fully aware, even though I was miserable. But at that moment, I didn't care about anything."

His hands are tightly intertwined, with the tendons clearly visible, showing a strong grip.

"I left that room, and it didn't take long for regret to hit me. I cried all the way back as if it could undo what I did. I decided not to tell you because it was a mistake that meant nothing, and no one would find out." His pauses become more frequent. "I came home determined to change our situation, to help us overcome that moment. But you were so deeply absorbed in your sadness that you didn't move to change, and I understand, but at that moment, I felt frustrated. And again, I didn't push myself or push you to take any action, I just accepted it, or rather, I gave up.”

I feel my breathing getting heavier. But I don't think I have any tears left to cry.

"I found out who she was weeks later, when I met Matteo in Brackley and he showed me a picture of her. I thought I couldn't feel any worse, but the guilt multiplied at that moment, not because of him or her. But because I knew that you would eventually meet someday, and that even without knowing, you would see in person the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life. She became real at that moment.”

"I met with her afterwards. I asked to speak with her after I found out who she was, thinking it would put an end to it, not wanting to take any risks. But..." He pauses, knowing he doesn't need to continue. They kept meeting, it's obvious. "It lasted for a few weeks, I found ridiculous reasons to make myself believe that none of it was wrong. Every time you cut off contact or kept your distance, I believed even more that there was a reason for what I was doing. But it all ended things before November. I think I snapped out of that numbness and apathy and realized what I was doing at the same time as I watched you trying to get better. I decided to end it and hoped it would never affect you. I never wanted to tell you, thought I could hide it and go back to normal. But of course you noticed, and the more distant you became, the more distant I became too. Not because I didn't care, but because I was afraid you would find out and give up on me. But I didn't realize that by doing that, I only made our situation worse.”

He separates his intertwined hands and extends one of them towards me, slowly, as if wanting to make sure I will allow the contact. I'm indecisive, unsure if I want or can handle the touch at this moment. But before I can make a conscious decision, I feel Lewis' hand on mine, which is resting on the table. His hand is warm and firm, and I feel his fingers gently closing around mine. It's a comforting gesture, yet it hurts like never before.

"You said I looked at her the same way I looked at you, but that's not true, Y/n. I never even looked at her in any other way than to fulfill a stupid need that I thought I had. She will never be half of who you are. It was never your fault, and it never will be. I love you more than anything, and I tried my best in everything I did for you, until the moment I broke our relationship in a way that I don't know if it can be fixed." His hand tightens around mine. "I won't insist on you giving me a second chance. Not after tonight. What you said and how you're feeling right now, it's more devastating for me than I thought possible. I want us back, but if you don't want that, I'll understand. I love you too much to push for it after what I've done to you.”

His voice comes out choked with tears, which hurts me deeply. I desperately wish I could say something to ease the weight we both carry, but the words elude me, and there's nothing I can offer to improve our situation right now.

I only decide to speak up once I'm sure he's finished telling me what he needed to say.

"I don't think you can truly understand what I've been through and what I'm going through right now," I say in a calmer tone than I expected. I watch Lewis cry in front of me as I try to formulate what I'm going to say. He breaks eye contact, but I keep looking at him. "And I will never know your feelings and what led you to do what you did.”

Gently, I pull my hand away from his touch.

"Look at me," I say. He turns his gaze towards me instantly. "But I still love you. More than I should. But I don't know if that's enough.”

"It's okay.” His expression falls again, I never thought I would see him like this, but I also never thought I would be in this state.

“I'm not sure if I want to end this. And I don't want to think about it anymore today. I'm exhausted, Lewis, exhausted from thinking and trying to understand. I just need some time away from everything.”

“I can spend another night away.”

“No. It's okay. You can stay here.”

I get up and walk towards him, closer than I have been in the past few weeks. Lewis is sitting down, so his height is a bit shorter than mine. His hands rest on the sides of my legs, and he leaves them there. And I don't mind the contact, nor do I move to pull away.

"I'm not worried about forgiving you," his eyes shimmer. "I'm worried about what will happen if I do forgive you. How I can trust you again? how I can no longer be afraid or ashamed? And all of this seems so much more complex than I could handle, even with all the love in the world. I don't know how long it would take for me to heal from this.”

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll wait for you to be sure, no matter how long it takes."

"I may not come back."

"That’s okay. Just let me know." His eyes are sad, but he seems more relieved now.

I nod as I place one of my hands on his shoulder.

"Let's go. I need to get some sleep."

He accompanies me to the entrance door of the master bedroom.

"Goodnight." The smile on his lips looks pained. He looks at me for a few seconds before heading to the guest room and closing the door behind him.

"Goodnight, Lewis." I say to no one, knowing that my words won't be heard by him.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, I decided to change some things in the story in the last minute 😅. But here it is. Hope you guys liked it, and see you in the next chapter!

Taglist:

@slafgoalskybaby, @justanormalfangirlsworld, @ravenqueen27, @nakamotosmoron, @supersanelyromantic, @maryseesthings, @bebesobrielo, @tenaciousathleteoperatorgarden, @bbhyunee, @missamericana69, @thotsposts

If you want to be put on, or taken off my taglist, please let me know!

[possumsinpeoplesuits]

So, every once in a while, I have to rant about something online before I just start blabbing to some poor unfortunate Wendy's employee about niche internet pornography. Sometimes in the middle of that rant I realize I might be onto something, and have to share it with others who might benefit.

Today, that subject is the Omegaverse, and the squandered potential for worldbuilding therein.

Now, this post is gonna have some very broad generalizations about the genre, because while I'm certain there's plenty of authors who do put a lot of thought into the pedantic details I'm about to have a Category 5 Autism Event about, it's been difficult to find them amongst a sea of painfully mediocre fics.

For every stellar Locked Tomb Omegaverse fic set in a modern day Taco Bell (Seriously, I want to engrave Double the Meat onto a satellite and launch it into space so that extraterrestrials can see the peak of human civilization) there's like... a million and one Alpha Male/Omega Female pairings written by Conservative Mormon housewives that dare to ask such questions as "What if a man and a woman could have a baby?" and "What the hell is consent?"

But I'm not here to be mentally ill about yet another space being drowned in heteronormativity. Nor am I gonna be a dick about the first fics written by teenagers who're just dipping into fan communities, because my terminally online since the age of 11 ass would be a huge hypocrite for that.

No, instead I'm here to talk about genitals, and deliver just enough sciencey technobabble to justify my passionate opinions about the potential of what is, ostensibly, werewolf porn.

So, for those who've somehow gotten through all these paragraphs but have zero idea what the Omegaverse is, the basic gist is that there are three sex categories that're separate and occur within the usual sexes that humans already have. Effectively, this means that male, female, and intersex individuals can also be Alphas, Betas, or Omegas.

So, to understand these categories, there's a pretty simple rule. Alphas can get Omegas pregnant, regardless of physical sex. Sometimes Alphas are bigger than normal, and Omegas are more petite, but that's not quite as much of a core "rule" to follow, and more just dependent on people's tastes. Betas usually follow standard human dimorphism, though I have seen some people headcanon them as a sort of halfway point between Alpha and Omega.

There's some more details, too, like the presence of knotting (where the base of the penis swells and prevents pulling out during orgasm), heat cycles and rut (where the mating instinct goes into fucking overdrive in the most literal sense), pheromones, bite marking, and sometimes that whole... imprinting thing from Twilight.

So, taking this all into account... Omegaverse fiction has the potential for a BARE MINIMUM of 6-9 SEXES before even taking the vast spectrum of gender identities and presentations into account.

Do you see what I'm on about now? When our society is still struggling with the concept of being nonbinary, and barely ever even acknowledges intersexuality as existing, any Omegaverse setting would be radically different on a biological, psychological, and sociological level.

Can ya see now why I get frustrated when it gets stripped down to compulsive heterosexuality with wolf dicks?

Now, with all the standard tropes laid out like this, we get back to the question that started this all, the question that should be a no brainer when it comes to smut... What them genitals look like? What does a female Alpha, or a male Omega have down there? I have three concepts in mind, and explanations on how they could work from a scientific perspective that's just barely not bullshit enough to overcome suspension of disbelief!

So, the first thought, and the one that initially appeals to me as a nonbinary person... they just look trans. This concept is really simple to work with, because we can just look at real life trans people and just tweak things a little bit. Maybe primary and secondary sexual characteristics operate independently naturally, or maybe there's HRT for it. It's a pretty common method, too, and I enjoy seeing it... but it feels like it needs something more?

Don't get me wrong, this one's basically my personal gold standard for shorter Omegaverse stories, especially fanfiction, but it's also just... swapping parts around. Great for ease of access, but hard to differentiate from the trans experience. Definitely a go-to if you want to play with transition in an alternate society, though.

For the other two, I have to explain a bit about fetal development and reproductive organ equivalents. Also a bit of genetics, too, because it's where we're gonna fuck around and build a lot of theoretical bullshit around a little bit of real knowledge.

So! Some of you may have heard that every fetus starts as female, but might not know some of the mechanisms at work when that changes, and how finicky they can be. This is also fun to throw at TERFs, because ambiguity throws a wrench in the simplistic arguments of reactionary bigots. :)

So, the usual arrangement of sex determining genes is often simplified to XX=female and XY=male. This leaves out other variations like Klinefelter syndrome (XXY) which affects 1 in 500 people under the AMAB umbrella, causing some degree of infertility, autism symptoms, and a somewhat androgynous body shape. (I've been checked for this one! It came up negative, but reading about it was enlightening.)

Now, the presence of a Y chromosome (usually) causes the proto-organs to change function, and develop into the male-aligned reproductive systems at roughly, say... 6-8 weeks? (Unless, of course, there a deficiency in the 5α-Reductase enzyme, which causes a delay in some of this process, resulting in a child that appears female, then just... grows a dick during puberty when the higher levels of testosterone overcome the deficiency and finish off the primary sexual trait development.)

Hey, wanna know the fun thing? Even that is an oversimplification. The whole Y chromosome doesn't mean shit unless the sex-determining region Y gene is in the right place. It can just... fuck off and attach to the X chromosome. If this mutation occurs in XY individuals, it causes Swyer's syndrome, resulting in a female aligned reproductive system that just doesn't include functioning ovaries, just purposeless ambiguous gonads. Pair that fucky X chromosome with another X chromosome, and you get a male with XX chromosomes.

Plus, if someone has a faulty androgen receptor? Well, partial androgen insensitivity can leave things ambiguous, but if it just doesn't work at all? Yeah, everything will develop along the female blueprint, despite the fact that the gonads are testes.

I swear this is still about the porn.

So, with the information we have about these real, existent conditions, we have a good idea of reproductive development, and the mechanisms at play. Now, there's still some theory that's not been definitively proven yet, but the current consensus on the primary sexual equivalents are as follows:

The clitoris forms into the penis, while the vaginal canal doesn't form.

The ovaries become testes, or stay as undefined gonads.

The salpinx become the vas deferens (these are the tubes that transfer eggs or seminal fluids, respectively. More on this later.)

And finally, and the most theoretical, the uterus is believed to become the prostate. (There's sometimes a little pocket, or divot in the prostate, and the arrangement makes sense, but it's still up for debate.)

But how do we use this for our fuck fics, you ask? How do we take your failed medical career, and translate it into Destiel's babies ever after? Well, it's quite simple! We just have to add the bullshit!

So, most alterations to the SRY gene or the androgen receptor tends to just wholesale alter the whole array, and the midway point usually results in infertility and difficulty with sexual function, but what if we could change this? What if, for the purpose of our fiction, we can mix and match everything, and somehow make it all functional and neat? Well, fasten your fuckin' seatbelts, because we're finally at the theories I made while delirious due to a combination of sleep deprivation and the after effects of eating an entire ice cream cake to myself over the weekend.

So, the firmest idea, and the idea I'll be using because I am WAY too deep into this to not write Omegaverse unironically, is what I've dubbed the Primary/vestigal system for f!A and m!O characters.

So, this theory would require that we shove two things into suspension of disbelief. One, we have to completely fuck with androgen and estrogen receptors to mix and match the development of primary and secondary sexual characteristics. Two, I have absolutely no idea how you'd be able to tell when this is going to occur. Maybe genetic testing, or maybe it's just a surprise? Depends on your style of story.

Effectively, we'd base this off the delayed primary sexual characteristic development mentioned above. Alpha Females would operate similar to the real thing, being born looking typically female, before puberty hits and the Alpha genes take over for the genital development, while secondary characteristics still follow a feminine shape. Maybe the gonads stay inside, but function as testes? Sure, sperm production is more effective around 1-2 degrees lower than normal body temperature, but it doesn't stop entirely.

For Omega Males, the process would occur in reverse. Maybe the testes just change course and go back into the abdomen to become ovaries, or maybe they don't descend at all and the first clue this is happening would just be finding a vaginal canal forming?

I like this one primarily because it feels like a less 1 to 1 allegory for being queer, but still feels kind of relatable? You can, of course, still have the end result resemble the first method mentioned waaaaay up past the sciencey bits, but I kind of like the idea of there being a vestigial remnant of the birth parts left behind. I like the ambiguity, and the chance to explore how this would affect someone appeals to me.

Now, my last theory is mostly for the lulz, but this must be DOCUMENTED for POSTERITY'S SAKE.

So, Omegaverse started with m/m shipping with mpreg, right? Well, a lot of the earlier fiction just... describes typical cis male anatomy, with zero explanation for exactly how this is all occurring. There's just... anal sex, and then that somehow forms babby.

Well, what if I told you that I've figured it out? See, remember how I mentioned that the prostate is theoretically what became of the fetal uterine tissue? Guess where the prostate is? Guess. GUESS.

THE ASS IS WHERE!

So, we just have to bullshit the prostate back into a functioning uterus, but leave the placement in close proximity to the anus. Now, the other problem is that that would mean that there's an opening leading to the colon, which... look, I have no idea how birds and lizards keep their cloaca from getting infected, but connecting other tracts to the asshole doesn't usually end well.

So, we have to find a way to seal it up when not in use. Now, the cervix serves this purpose in the real world, opening to let in fluids, or let out discharge or, y'know... a baby, but that's really expensive so most of us settle for having a breeding kink that we never act on, and instead impose on our favorite blorbos who don't have to pay for health insurance.

But still, even with a butt-cervix, bacteria's still likely to get in, so we need a firmer block. I've suggested a little flap like the epiglottis in the throat as a second line of defense. If it can protect your trachea from wayward chicken nuggets, then hey! It might not be terrible for keeping sepsis at bay!

Unfortunately, layering extra protection over the bussy business zone ain't gonna cut it. Hell, as self cleaning as the vagina is, infections happen all the damn time, even if your hygiene is good. So, we need to take that self cleaning nature, apply it to the bussy business zone, and crank it up to eleven. Just constant mucousal discharge, pushing all the bad back out.

So, yeah. Your favorite Omega Man'll have a rectal womb covered with a secondary internal assflap that's constantly discharging a steady stream of slime (just consider it free lube!), but if you can make it past that, you can live your dreams of gettin' that bussy mpregged by cumming in they gay ass. Then they'd just kinda... poop out the baby, presumably.

So there you have it! Three in-depth explorations of how Omegaverse genitals can work! I'm gonna go take my psych meds and fucking SLEEP.