#i mean it was kind of triggering but like

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 10 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: A fight turns into something beautiful. Turns into what could be your last day on earth.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening, mentions of blood, mentions of murder/rape/death, hinting at suicidal thoughts (only briefly and not really serious, but I'll put it here nonetheless), body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation and low self-esteem, mentions of sexual activities and desires, smut, (rough) sex, oral sex, switch, degradation kink, dom/sub dynamics, daddy, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

The tight smile.

It was all you needed to see to know you were in great, big trouble. It was really disappointing though, considering how good the day had started.

When you woke up, right after having a short, restless sleep, you saw him lying beside you. And for once, ever since you had gotten here, he wasn’t awake. No, he was deep asleep. His beautiful  eyes shut tightly and his expression one of peaceful relaxation. You hadn’t ever seen him this perfect before.

It was nearly ridiculous. Just a few hours earlier, he had ravaged you in a way that left you feeling sore and used, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but somehow you had a feeling last night was different. It wasn’t the sex per say. It was the way he got angry and you felt you couldn’t get through to him, even if you truly wanted to. And what was far worse than all of it, was the threat.

The threat.

What did it even mean?

I would never kill you. At least not unless you gave me a reason to.

It wasn’t even a subtle threat. He didn’t try to hide that he was twisted and dangerous. Dangerous for you, if you pushed the right buttons. You had done so quite some times by now, but luckily you were still around. But how much was too much?

What would make his mind go blank and cause him to swing an axe at you?

Shoot you right in the face?

Gut you in the middle of the-

You shuddered and took a long, deep breath to calm yourself. This wasn’t going to happen. You wouldn’t anger him to that degree. And yet, you couldn’t keep yourself from thinking about it.

What could possibly piss him off enough, to trigger such an extreme reaction?

If you went out and fucked someone else?

Or if you spilled milk on the coffee table?

You took another slow breath and looked back at his peaceful, sleeping form. It was hard not to love him, when he was like this. Sweet. Peaceful.

Vulnerable.

You hadn’t even seen vulnerable, regarding him. Not really. You didn’t know his name, his family, his backstory or anything else that truly mattered. All you knew was which buttons to push and it would make him slap you. You had his age. And his sexual preferences. You knew he had some kind of dangerous job, but you had no idea what it was about. And you knew he was twisted.

Utterly and entirely twisted.

But you saw none of that as you watched him sleep. All you saw was a handsome man, the most handsome man you had ever seen, even with the faint trace of a scar on his cheek. You still hated the sight of it. Not because it would have done anything to his attractiveness. No, he was very obviously still perfect. It was the fact that he got hurt.

Someone hurt him.

You were surprised just by how angry the thought made you. He was always so confident. It was his choice to either be angry and take it out on you or to be gentle and spoil you with affection and gifts. But it was his choice. He was the man. He was in charge. He was the epitome of strength.

And someone hurt him.

Him.

A part of you was almost tempted to think yours.

Someone hurt your man.

But you pushed the thought away just as quick as it came. He was hardly your man.

Your bane, your curse, your horror. Yes.

But not your man.

When he stirred slightly, you were pulled out of your thoughts. It didn’t take longer than a few seconds for him to blink his eyes open. When he finally looked up at you and met your gaze, a hint of surprise flashed over his features. But he schooled his expression into a soft smile effortlessly.

“Good morning, my little owl.” He purred. “You’re up early.” He raised a brow and smirked slowly. “Were you watching me sleep?”

Your face flushed, but you didn’t feel the need to deny it. It was pretty obvious anyway.

“I did.” You said quietly. “I couldn’t help it. You looked so…peaceful.”

He hummed softly and propped himself up on his elbows, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear with two fingers. “Peaceful? Doesn’t sound like me at all.”

He didn’t seem angry or even irritated that you watched him. If anything, he seemed amused or maybe even strangely flattered.

You shrugged.

“Have you been up for long?”

You shook your head.

He frowned slightly and held your chin in his hand, brushing his thumb over your skin in a gentle way. “You didn’t sleep well. You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

You averted your gaze. What could you possibly tell him? That you spent all night, asking yourself not if, but when he would finally snap and snap your neck the same?

“Look at me.”

You hesitated, but eventually you met his gaze again. His expression was one of thoughtfulness and curiosity and you knew you had to give him something. He wouldn’t stop pestering you otherwise. You thought for a moment, before you finally gave up. You didn’t trust your ability to lie to him. He would see right through it and punish you for trying to deceive him.

“It’s about last night.” You murmured quietly.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but eventually he relaxed his expression and let go of your chin. With a soft sigh, he murmured back: “Was it too much for you? Too rough?”

You thought about the best possible way to answer this. Eventually you came up with something you would have hoped would be the perfect solution. “I’m still ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” He frowned.

“Because a part of me enjoys it.”

He hummed softly. “We talked about this, sweet girl, but I’ll say it again and again. You have nothing to be ashamed about. First of all, it’s not your fault you turned out like this.”

“That’s kind of the problem.” It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. It did bother you. Just that the life threatening thing was worse. “I feel like you enjoy what we do, because you simply enjoy it. And I think I enjoy it, because I feel the constant need to get hurt and degraded, because of…because of what happened to me.”

He regarded you with a long, thoughtful look. His eyes softened somewhat and he was back. The man who supposedly cared about you came back, after a long, rough night. He sighed and rolled over so that he was on his back and staring at the ceiling. All the while he stretched out his arm and pulled you along, curling you into his side. He didn’t look at you as he spoke and his tone of voice was almost emotionless.

You couldn’t tell if you preferred this over the anger. Probably not.

“Did I ever tell you about my father?”

You froze. What? No. He hadn’t ever told you anything about himself that mattered. Let alone his family. As far as you were concerned, he didn’t even have a father.

But all you managed was a small, breathless shake of your head.

He hummed softly and played with your hair as he spoke, still keeping his voice cool and measured. He never met your gaze. Almost like he couldn’t. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to appear nonchalant or if he truly didn’t care. You hoped for the first one.

“My father had some creative ways of punishment.” He hummed. Oh, God. “Similar to your mother, I might think. Just more blood. And a few…other things.”

You held your breath as he spoke, feeling utterly sick. The fact that he had so subtly and smoothly threatened your life last night was suddenly the last thing on your mind.

“Don’t get me wrong, sweetness. I was always a little different from other boys my age. I wasn’t interested in the things the others were. I liked different things. Darker things. But I’m pretty sure, had it not been for my father…” He hummed. “He did some nasty things. Really nasty. And not only to me. To my mother as well.” He turned to face you fully, while you still lay frozen and staring at him with bated breath. All the while he caressed your face and spoke in this soft voice, like he was reading from a children’s book. It was eerie. “That might be one of the reasons why I am always in control.” He smiled briefly. “Especially sexually.”

You just kept staring at him. He hadn’t said it outright and he probably never would, but you could tell there was something. Something dark and terrible, something that still haunted him, even after all these years. And it made you sick to the core. The fact that his father, his own father, had hurt him, it made you feel nauseous. And especially, angry.

“So, I should probably be grateful to him, don’t you think?”

You knew you weren’t supposed to say anything to that, anything about that at all. No matter how terrible you felt, no matter how badly you wished to comfort him. He would get angry, because he would think of it as pity. You were sure. But you still had to say it.

“Your father is a sick man.” You said quietly. “And you didn’t deserve whatever he did to you.”

“Oh, I’m aware, my sweet, darling girl.” His face lit up in a soft smile. “I was just a boy. A twisted one, maybe. But still a boy.”

It made you feel as uneasy, as you felt relieved about it. At least he acknowledged it. He had no fault in his father’s cruelty. At least not back then.

And at least there was something. A tiny reminder that he was human, that he was real, that there was something akin to flesh and blood that made him similar to you. Not the fact that it had happened. Oh no, you would have changed it, were you in the power to. You would have bled and suffered, if only it meant to free him from the burden of his past.

No, but the thought that he told you about it. He had a father. A mother. A family. He had a childhood. A life. He was real.

You lay in silence for a long while. Of course you wanted to say more, to comfort him and hug him. To kiss away the fear he had probably felt as a little boy. You wanted to take him in your arms and make him whole again, puzzle him together until he got reunited with the love he was so desperately missing all his life. What about his mother? You asked yourself. But you thought now wasn’t the best time to ask. You didn’t want to risk making him angry, when he wasn’t so far. He hadn’t ever shared as much of himself. You didn’t want to say anything. And, you suddenly realized, you were afraid to pressure him.

So you said the next best thing. In the silent hope, that one day he’d trust you enough to let you in.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” You said very softly. His head perked up and his expression softened. No anger in sight.

“My sweet, caring girl. The ghosts of my past are no more than that. And don’t you worry. I got my revenge.”

You bit your lip and rolled onto your side, facing him properly. The thoughtfulness in your eyes turned into something else the longer you looked at him, a mixture of concern and gentleness. He didn’t seem to mind. He let you stare without interrupting your thoughts. It was a peaceful, comfortable silence.

“How did you get your revenge?” You asked quietly, before you could stop yourself.

He smirked and stretched out his arms behind his head.

“I killed him.”

A part of you had suspected as much. But another part of you, the naïve little girl that you somehow still were, felt horrified. He killed his own father. And yet, that other part of you whispered softly in the back of your mind.

Did you expect anything else?

You thought back to your mother. Had you ever had a gun in the wrong moment-

No. Never. You couldn’t kill anyone. Not even a fucking fly. You were the type of person to chase them out of the window, instead of crushing them.

It wasn’t enough to calm you down and he seemed to notice.

“Are you alright, sweet girl?”

You were going to die anyway. Why not speak freely at least?

Forget his father. He’s dead. But you’re not. Not yet at least.

“You scared me last night.”

His brows furrowed. “When we-“

“No.” You said in a soft tone and slowly sat up, wrapping the sheets around your body. “I mean, yes. Kind of. But that’s not the problem. You scared me when you said…when you said you would kill me if I gave you a reason to.” Your expression and your tone of voice were almost child-like. Innocent and curious, not at all trying to guilt-trip him. Just a girl, scared for her life. Her sanity.

Herself.

“Oh, sweet girl.” He said softly as he sat up as well. He reached out to pull you on his lap, but you pulled back. He frowned, but he didn’t protest.

“I was simply-“

“What could get me killed?”

It was so sharp, so matter-of-fact, that it made him pause for a moment. He looked genuinely caught off-guard, like he never expected him to ask him such a question. And like he wasn’t sure how to answer it.

“What?”

“What could I say or do that would make you kill me?” You asked in a soft voice. Your heart was pounding wildly in your chest, but you tried to stay strong. You needed to get a point across. You needed to know.

He thought for a moment, before he leaned back and narrowed his eyes in a thoughtful frown.

“Another man.”

Cheating. As if you really were anything to each other, right?

Such a normal thing. People got killed over cheating all the time, didn’t they?

Or did they really?

“Another man.” You whispered. “Okay. What else?”

He hummed softly. “If you left me.”

“If I left you?” You meant it in a way as if saying; how would I be supposed to leave you? There aren’t even fucking windows here.

He nodded. “When you leave me, you’re no longer my girl. And I don’t have a reason to keep you alive, if you’re not.”

You swallowed thickly. How very refreshing. He was being honest at least. Wasn’t that what you wanted? And you didn’t know if this was better or worse. You had expected as much.

“Anything else?” You whispered hoarsely.

“No.”

Your brows shot up in surprise. “No? If I don’t cheat on you or leave you, you won’t-“

“No.” He said again, in that infuriating, calm tone.

“And if I insulted you?” You couldn’t stop yourself from asking. “If I hurt you? If I-“

“Don’t get me wrong.” The menacing bastard was back. “You don’t get to trample on me, sweet girl. In fact, you know what happens, if you do all that. You’ll get punished. And that didn’t change.” He narrowed his eyes further.

He took a long breath to calm himself and finally said: “I just didn’t want you to be terrified for no reason. I’m sure there are a few more things you can do that will definitely get you killed. So, try not to push my buttons too much. Don’t experiment. Don’t think you get any kind of power. All you are is my girl. Mine. Mine to use. Mine to torment as I please. You’re my plaything. My toy.” He got angrier with every word and you were sure, more than sure, you had done something terribly wrong.

“Mine to use however I see fit.” He gritted out. “Because that’s all you are to me.”

Every word stabbed a wound deeper and deeper into your soul. He didn’t love you. You weren’t an idiot. But a part of you had hoped, hoped so desperately, that you were anything more to him. Anything of meaning. Anything he cared about. Anything he thought about and smiled, when he went off to his mysterious workplace. Anything at all.

But you weren’t. You were his plaything. His fucktoy. His doll.

His girl.

Your face burned in shame and your guts churned painfully. You slowly looked down at your hands and folded them in your lap, while you kept the blanket pulled up to your chin.

“I wasn’t-“

“Yes, you were.” He hissed and roughly pulled your chin up, to make you look at him. “Did you hear me? You’re nothing more than a thing for me to use, a doll, something to dress up in a pretty dress and take my anger out on. Did you get that through your goddamn, thick skull? You’re nothing. Nothing at all.” He spat out.

At this point, you felt indeed like he had stabbed you. The knife was still there on the carpet by the bed. How very reckless. You could have stabbed him last night, didn’t he think about that? No, he was tired or maybe he just trusted himself to have broken you enough not to ever hurt him.

It was true. You wouldn’t ever hurt him. Not like that. That one punch was as far as it could go.

And now, as you sat there and listened to his cruel words, a small part of you suddenly wished he hadn’t bluffed, hadn’t used the knife as a way to find relief in his twisted mind. A part of you wished you weren’t there, to listen to his cruel reminders. The reminder that you were nothing.

Nothing at all.

You felt your hands shake, just the same second your lip quivered.

He was so angry, so furious, he hardly even recognized your presence. He wanted to make some point known.

You understood it now.

He would never love you.

But you? It was too late for you. You already loved him. And he was breaking your heart.

All your life you thought that couldn’t happen to you. You always assumed you were far too numb for these things.

A tear rolled down your cheek and you stared firmly down at your lap. Your hands were shaking furiously and your body shook with the sobs you choked back.

By the time he looked up again and saw the state you were in, his anger immediately disappeared. Something akin to horror took its place instead. He rushed forward without even thinking about it and held your arms tightly, tilting his head down below and staring up at you, to make you look at him.

“Wait.” He said quickly. “Wait. I didn’t mean it.”

You were stuck between pushing him away and letting him console you. But you knew there was probably nothing that could ever bring you back. Your heart, already broken and bruised, had just somehow been pieced back together by him, only for him to crush it again under the palm of his hand, under the cruelty of his words, under the weight of his actions.

You decided to push him back instead. At least for once, you tried to keep a semblance of dignity. It was a lost cause, but it meant something to you.

He let out a surprised exhale, but quickly rushed forward again, trying to get ahold of you, but this time, you struggled.

“Get off of me!”

“No, you need to listen to me!”

“No! No, get the hell off!”

“You need to listen!”

You struggled even harder and pushed him back, clawed at his skin and within seconds you found yourself in the middle of a physical fight. So far, he hadn’t tried to slap you or bring you to your senses anyhow, he just tried to make you focus. And when you hit against his chest or pushed him back by his shoulders, when you scratched his arms and pulled on his hair, he let you. Without retaliating. He let you.

You were just waiting for him to snap. A part of you might even have been hoping to get some kind of reaction out of him, because he had just hurt you so terribly. But he didn’t.

And when you pushed him back against the mattress, he let you.

And when you straddled his lap, he let you.

He even let you intertwine your fingers and press his hands against the bed.

He just let you.

You stopped struggling. Stopped fighting him and stopped trying to provoke anything.

You were on top him, your hair falling over your shoulders and framing your face like a waterfall. Everything else was suddenly gone. All that there was left were him and you. He stared up at you, his eyes wide and his expression one of quiet fascination. Of course he allowed you to take control. After all, all it needed was a tiny bit of strength from him and he’d have you pinned to the floor. But this time, he didn’t. He didn’t protest, didn’t fight back, didn’t even flinch. He allowed you to take the lead. He allowed you to take control of him.

When the thought hit you, you nearly choked on the air you breathed. And you breathed, heavily and quickly, until your breaths mingled into one. You leaned further down, so close that the tip of your nose almost touched his. His chest rose and fell quickly. You could tell, even though you kept your focus on his face.

“You meant it.” You whispered breathlessly.

He stared at you with his mouth slightly agape and then he slowly shook his head. “You’re more.” He whispered back.

More than a toy?

More than a doll?

More than just his girl?

You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t allow yourself to hope, because if you did, the next time he crushed it, it would be ever harder for you to find back to yourself. And did you really want to risk that?

You shook your head, ready to come up with the next bitter, biting response, when his words caught you off-guard.

“You’re not only mine”, he said quietly. “I’m also yours.”

God, this was confusing. And slowly you felt yourself get as dizzy and nauseous as you would have on a rollercoaster. You hated rollercoasters, because you were afraid of them. You hated them, because you never went on one.

“You’re two people at once.” You whispered breathlessly. “How do I know, when your evil twin will be back?”

He smiled slowly. Even now, even when you felt heartbroken and furious, his smile meant so much to you. It made everything seem beautiful. Everything was easier. Nothing hurt.

Until it did.

“I know.” He whispered. “Maybe you could try and put him in his place, every once in a while.”

You stared at him with wide eyes. Did he really allow you to take control? Just like that? Was it a trick? Was it a game? A joke? Something even more evil he’d come up with?

Whatever it was, you were dying to find out. Because you were sure, you’d get punished anyway. So, why not make use of it?

You took a shaky breath and leaned further down, so close, until your lips almost touched.

“You really didn’t mean it?” You asked in the ghost of a whisper.

His gaze briefly wandered down to your lips, before he looked into your eyes again.

“No.” He whispered back. “Not even I am that dense.”

That nearly made you smile.

But just nearly.

Instead you did something else. You leaned further down, until your lips finally touched his. The kiss was feather-light and hesitant. The touch was so gentle, that you caught yourself asking yourself in your head, if it really was the same man.

He was letting you kiss him. He didn’t try anything. Didn’t try to part your lips or pull you closer. Didn’t try to push your legs apart. His hands were still motionless under yours, all that he did was slowly caress the back of your hands with his fingers.

He participated in the kiss. He kissed you back, obviously. But all he did was mirror your touch.

You were in control.

You gasped against his lips. You had no idea what to do. It felt odd. Maybe even wrong. The only things you had ever fantasized about were to get controlled by someone else.

Controlled by him.

And for you to control him, it sounded like an impossible endeavor. It felt like one, even more. But there you were. On his lap. Slowly guiding the pace.

You swallowed thickly.

“I don’t know what to do.” You whispered into the kiss.

He hummed very quietly. “Imagine I’m the good twin.” He whispered back and pulled back just enough to look at your face. “There is no right or wrong. Just do whatever feels good.”

You bit your lip as you watched him closely. It could still be a trick. But in the back of your mind, you knew it wasn’t. It was an attempt to heal you. Heal him as well, maybe. You were both damaged. Both two fragments, incomplete and alone. Was it possible that you could heal each other?

It sounded strange in your head. You wanted to be controlled. And he survived off the feeling of being in control. But maybe, just maybe, this was what you both needed. A role reverse. A chance to grow. A chance to connote. Just this once.

To become one, whole thing.

You took a deep, shaky breath and brushed your lips over his. You were still nervous. But you tried to do what he said. Just do whatever feels good.

And maybe it would.

You hesitantly, almost shyly, ran the tip of your tongue along his lower lip. His reaction surprised you. He moaned. You really expected him to get off on nothing but cruelty and violence. But somehow the feeling of you, of being with you, in any way, seemed to be enough.

You needed to try it. The shift. The control. Even just this once.

You slowly parted his lips with your tongue and yours met his in a timid, careful movement. He was still the one guiding you. But the biggest reason was, that you had no idea what you were doing. But he was holding himself back. You were on top, pressed against him.

He was yours.

Your man. Your psychopath. Maybe even your lover.

The kiss went on and your movements became more and more confident. You didn’t actually care what you were doing, as long as you heard the soft moans he tried to suppress. And every time he did, you couldn’t help but moan, too. Your tongues tangled in a sinful dance and you slowly slid your fingertips over his wrists and up his arms. Until you eventually reached his shoulders. His neck. His hair. His cheek. His chin.

You hadn’t realized how quickly you were breathing. All the time you expected him to push you away, to reject you, to stop you. But he never did.

Your hand stilled against his face and you pulled your head back to look at him. To see if he was going to stop you. Mock you. Hurt you some more.

But his expression was more earnest than you had ever seen before. You could see the way his throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed and the small, tiny frown of focus on his face. He looked much more mature in that moment than he usually did. When he wore that twisted smile, he looked younger. Carefree. But in that moment, he looked like a man who had seen life.

And death.

And taken a part in it.

He slowly parted his lips, when your fingers stilled against them, inviting you. Your mouth fell open and you inhaled sharply as you felt his tongue dart out.

“God, what are you-“ You stopped yourself and instead released the softest moan, when he ran his tongue along your index finger. His hand gently circled your wrist and he pressed his lips against the back of your hand. Your knuckles. And eventually each finger.

You watched him in awe, realizing you were only ever falling deeper for him.

What was it with that man that you loved him so much, despite all the pain he put you through?

Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. The watching, the silence. You squeezed his hand and your head dipped forward. Your lips found his neck and you made a point of kissing each and every spot of skin you found on the way. His eyes fell shut and he took a shaky breath.

“No.” He whispered. “Wait.”

You immediately froze, expecting the inevitable rejection. But instead, he bit his lip and slowly slid his hands under your nightdress. The calloused skin of his palms ran up your back and he gently slid the material up, until he finally managed to pull it over your head and onto the ground. His gaze wandered from your face, down to your neck, where it lingered and eventually further down to your breasts and your stomach.

“God.” He whispered breathlessly. “God, you’re perfect.” He bit his lip again and met your gaze. “Let me worship you.”

A shiver ran down your spine and you tilted your head to the side, only to feel his lips brush along your earlobe and eventually over your neck. You closed your eyes and sighed softly. It was the best feeling in the world.

His lips caressed your neck and his tongue occasionally darted out, drawing a moan from your lips. He moved with devilish slowness, a torturous pace, slow enough to make you melt into a puddle of desire on top of him. A part of you almost wanted to beg him. Beg him to go faster, to touch you harder, to take you. But you didn’t. Because another part of you wanted to savor every second of this.

When you felt the wet heat of his mouth move lower and embrace the sensitive skin of your breast, you felt your eyes roll back in your head. The sigh that came over your lips was more of a moan. You gently buried your fingers in his hair and played with it. Every time his tongue slipped out to run over the curve of your breast, you felt your hips press down against his own on pure instinct. You felt how hard he was, painfully so. But he didn’t press his hips up against you, he didn’t even try once. He was skilled at ignoring his own need, when he wanted to. He made you feel like a princess. Like all that mattered in the world were you.

You squirmed and shuddered when he moved underneath you, brushing his tongue down a wet path on your stomach.

His hands encircled the back of your thighs and he held you firmly, his fingers gently digging into your skin. And he moved. Lower and lower. Until you felt his hot breath kiss the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. A soft whimper left you and you bit your lip to keep yourself from begging. He was going to give you whatever you wanted. Today, there was no need to beg.

He slowly but firmly pushed your legs apart, and settled in-between them, still lying on his back and ignoring his own ache. He shot you a pointed look, before he finally stuck out his tongue and rolled it over the warm wetness of your need.

“Oh, God.”

He hit every right spot at the first try and you could no longer stay silent. His grip on your thighs tightened and he silently encouraged you to move. Move. Take what you want.

You swallowed a shaky moan and began to tentatively move your hips. It didn’t take long for you to figure out how it worked, how you had to move. It was so easy and the pleasure rolled over you like a warm bath.

“Oh, God.” You whispered again, tightening your hand in his hair.

He did the most sinful things, sliding his tongue inside you and pulling it back out, running it along every spot, embracing your center of pleasure with his warm lips and it felt like Heaven. He knew where to kiss, where to lick, where to suck and where to flick his tongue. He knew everything. And in that moment, you didn’t care one bit about where he gained that knowledge.

Because he used it on you.

And he’d be using it on your for as long as you were his girl.

And you wanted to be his girl for the rest of your life.

“Yes. There. Right there.” You gasped out, moving your hips again and silently begging him to continue, to give you what you wanted, to give you him.

And he did nothing less than that. He kissed you like he’d kiss your lips, he tightened his grip, he didn’t let you back away. His mouth was firmly attached to your body, eager to give you everything you wanted. Letting you ride yourself to bliss.

Which was exactly what you did. You didn’t even realize it, by how suddenly it happened, but your release rolled over you like a flash of lightning. It felt more intense than ever. You felt everything deeply and he didn’t stop, until he was sure, you were entirely spent and satisfied.

You were still gasping for air, when he finally released his grip on you and looked up at you with a soft expression.

You stared at him, trying to catch your breath. All you wanted was to say something, anything, but no words came over your lips. All you managed was the gentle touch of your palm against his cheek. He smiled slowly and covered your hand with his own. Then he slowly moved back up, so that you’d straddle his lap again.

“How was that?” He whispered.

“Fuck.” Was all that you managed.

A low laugh rumbled in his chest, but no trace of mockery. Just satisfaction and a tad bit of pride. You forgave him. You would have forgiven him anything.

“Can I?” You finally whispered. You needed to know, if you were still in control.

He smirked. He looked so confident. Just like you always knew him. Confident and strong. In control. And yet…

“I’m all yours, baby. Ride me.”

You bit your lip. Your face flushed the tiniest bit, but you nodded. Now, this was making you really nervous. You had seen videos, but were you able to do it yourself?

Why not? You thought. Why not?

You leaned down and captured his lips in a kiss. Still slow and sensual, but you poured all the passion you felt for him in that kiss. And he responded in kind. He didn’t try to take control of your mouth. Instead he moaned against your lips, every time your tongue brushed against his. He ran a hand down your back and squeezed your behind firmly in his hand.

“Fuck, I need you to ride me or I’m going to die.” He groaned as he bit your lip. You responded with another moan. You still felt his hardness press against you, hard and ready and needy.

God, the thought alone. The thought that he wanted you that much. It drove you insane.

You swallowed thickly and carefully ran a hand down his chest, down his stomach, down his waist, until-

You smiled. You missed his throbbing, aching need and brushed your fingers gently along his thigh instead.

He glared up at you, a hint of desperation behind the repressed anger.

“I should have known this would come.” He hissed.

Your smile widened into a grin, as you teasingly caressed his side instead.

“What? I’m just doing what you do.”

He released a frustrated growl.

“You-“

“Come on.” You whispered. “Let me have this. Just this once.”

He was still frustrated, but the look in his eyes softened the tiniest bit.

“But I want you.” He murmured and you swallowed.

“How much?” You whispered. God, this was fun.

“How much?” He asked incredulously. “Can’t you feel how much?”

You hummed in the same way he normally would. So innocent. So devilish.

“Paint a picture with your words.”

He exhaled sharply. But eventually he calmed down and wrapped his arms around you gently.

“I need to be inside of you or I’m going to die. I’m going to die, I mean it.”

“Keep going.” You whispered. “Talk to me.” While you spoke, you shifted slightly on his lap, gently grinding down on him and letting him feel you. Just enough to make you gasp, not enough for him to enter you yet.

He bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.

“I want to feel you.” He murmured. “I want to fuck you. I want to be one with you. And I fucking want to cum inside you.”

A shiver ran down your spine and you sighed.

“Keep going.” You responded in a breathless whisper, as you ground down against him again. The friction was enough for your both to snap your eyes shut.

“I want you to cum.” He whispered back. “I want you to cum so hard, that it’ll make you cry.”

“Fuck.” You whispered breathlessly and buried your face in his neck. “Fuck, yes.”

You swallowed again and pulled your head back up, enough to rest your forehead against his.

“Let me move then?” You whispered. “Please?”

He bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. “But fucking get to it.”

You released a shaky sigh. You kept your forehead pressed against his and stared into his eyes, intense and deep, while you slowly spread your legs further. You shifted again, your movements a little awkward and insecure, but eventually you felt him press up against you and you felt his tip press against your entrance. And then you slowly lowered yourself down onto his lap. You felt him fill you, but it happened so slowly that you felt every bit of it. And all the time you kept your gaze fixed on his eyes. His reaction. Every moan, every sigh, every twitch. All of it was enough to make you moan in return. You slowly lowered yourself further down, until you felt him all the way. And when you did…You didn’t move. You stayed like that. Just feeling. Just feeling all of him.

And the look in his eyes was worth it.

You had never seen him this soft, this vulnerable before. Not even when he told you about his father. His eyes were softer than ever before and you suddenly realized; you had never seen him this needy. This desperate to feel you. You were sure, just a second more and he would either take control or beg you. But you couldn’t let that happen.

It was his first time to let someone else take control after all.

And you couldn’t have him begging. You couldn’t have him do anything that would make him feel ashamed, when he was so unabashedly doing everything in order to make you happy.

So finally you moved. Slowly and carefully, very unsure still. But you moved. And he moaned. And he moved. And you moaned.

You had never felt him this deep before, this hard, this raw.

“Ride me.” He whispered breathlessly. “Ride daddy’s cock, baby.”

Your face flushed even more, but all you could focus on were his words. You movements became more forceful, more frantic, more desperate. And as hard as he tried not to move at all, it was simply impossible. He pressed his hips up against you, letting you feel him, so hard and God, so desperate.

“Yes. Yes, babygirl, just like that. Let daddy fill you up.” He groaned out.

With every thrust, every move, you felt yourself get closer yet again. It felt like a fantasy.

“Yes. Yes, my sweet girl, my baby, my darling, my love-“

His eyes widened frantically. He panicked. You could tell. So did you. On the inside. But on the outside, you pretended. You pretended all you could, that you hadn’t heard it.

The L-word.

The word that nearly broke you.

No, you hadn’t heard it. He had never said it. It was just a slip-up. A simple mistake. Nothing to get hot and bothered about.

When he realized you didn’t react, he slowly calmed down again and tightened his grip on your hips. His own movements became more and more desperate, until he was pounding into you from underneath.

“Fuck, yes. Cum for me, my babygirl. Cum for me, my darling. Take every drop of my cum.”

His words were enough to drive you over the edge. With a sharp inhale, a breathless moan, you felt your own orgasm hit you again. And he went over the edge right with you.

Your lips just an inch apart and your eyes fixed on each other.

Deep.

And raw.

“Yes.” He growled. “Oh God, yes. Fuck, yes. My girl. My girl, my...” His voice cracked and he came with a roar. He pushed his hips against you with a fervor that nearly left you bruised from the inside and it made your release drag on and on, until you felt you were about to take off to the sky.

It took you a few seconds, but when you both finally came back down from your high, you realized you were still staring into each other’s eyes. You mouth slightly agape and gasping for air, your brows furrowed and your bodies still connected in the most intimate way. You didn’t want him to withdraw yet. You wanted to feel his release run along your thighs. You wanted to feel dirty like that and at the same time you wanted something else entirely.

Stay close.

Stay together.

My love.

The word kept echoing through your mind like a poem, like a curse.

Like a death warrant.

My love.

He buried his hand in your hair and gently tugged on it.

“That…was…”

You had never seen him speechless before. The sight stirred so much in you.

You idiot girl. He hurt you, he hurt you so terribly and all you wanted right now was him beside you, at all times, maybe with a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly.

God, you were just as insane as he was. Probably even more so.

He was a psychopath. What was your excuse?

You tried to distract yourself from your thoughts and so you decided to take control a last time. Your head dipped forward and you kissed him. With a tenderness that made your heart ache. And he responded. With a softness that left you breathless.

My love.

Half an hour later, you finally managed to get your hands off of each other. After you finished your bathroom routine, he invited you to the shower with him. You’d join him in a minute, you decided, while you were on your way to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Your mouth felt dry, your whole body did actually.

You felt sore as hell, but God. God.

The memory of it made you smile. You had never felt more loved in your life. Never felt more special, more desired, more…

A sound made you snap out of your thoughts and you looked up from the ground. What you saw made your heart stop.

The door.

The fucking door.

You mind went blank and your heart stopped beating.

The fucking door was open.

You swallowed thickly. Was it a test? Probably. Did you consider leaving?

You took a deep breath and slowly stepped into the hallway. The front door was open and there was that visitor’s terrace with a glass door attached to it, which led to the great staircase of the apartment complex.

It was a test. Or something equally cruel.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if he truly made a mistake? He was only human after all.

You stared at the glass door like you would have stared at an alien.

This was probably your only ever chance. To flee. Escape.

Get back to…

To what?

To normality, you told yourself.

To safety.

A lump formed in your throat. Did you want that? Did you even want to leave?

Even if it wasn’t a test, did you truly want to leave him?

The thought left a bitter taste in your mouth. It almost felt like acid and it weighed like a heavy stone on your heart. The thought of sleeping alone again, of never seeing his silly smile again. Even the twisted one, you’d miss.

The thought of never feeling his lips on yours again.

His hands in your hair, his voice in your ear.

His everything.

Him.

You were his girl.

You couldn’t just up and leave. What was there in the world for you?

Maybe this was exactly your destiny. Him. Him. Him.

He was all you needed, right? He took care of you. He provided for you.

He loved you. In his own, twisted way.

My love.

You couldn’t, you decided. You couldn’t leave. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t ever-

The sound of someone’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, but to your horror, it wasn’t him. Your eyes widened impossibly when you saw the form of a man approaching.

He looked like a janitor or something like that. A man far past his prime with greying hair and a kind smile.

God, you had missed kindness.

But no, no, you were his girl. You were his girl. You wouldn’t ever leave.

You took a step back like a cornered animal as the man approached and said something to you in Korean. When you backed away even more, he stopped and his eyes widened in surprise.

He kept talking to you, kept speaking in that reassuring tone of voice.

“I…don’t…understand.” You breathed out.

You didn’t even realize how you must have looked, terrified and broken. A faint mark on your cheek. Your clothes crumpled. Bite marks, love bites, more marks on your throat.

He frowned slightly and tilted his head to the side.

“Miss-“ He said in a thick, Korean accent. “Miss- The man that’s live here- The man- Is he-“

In that moment, you felt it. His presence was so prominent, you didn’t need to hear him call out to you. You just felt it. He came in, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair wet from the shower. He most likely came to look why you hadn’t come yet.

You quickly spun around and met his gaze, your expression horrified. Your eyes were so expressive.

The door was open. He came by himself. It wasn’t my fault. Please! It wasn’t my fault!

Something hard flashed through his eyes, but it was only visible to you and it was only there for the blink of an eye. And then it was gone and it got replaced by the tight smile.

A tight, polite smile, directed at the janitor in the doorway. He spoke to him in Korean and stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You stared at the ground, completely horrified.

Oh no, you thought.

Oh no. This is it.

_____________________________

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@hayakamis-blog Thank you for your lovely request, I loved the idea and I hope it turned out the way you hoped!

Author's note: I'll be honest with you, guys, this chapter cost me YEARS of my life, omg. I wrote 5000 words yesterday and then realized I didn't like what I was writing, so I deleted everything and did this today instead. I hope it was the right decision! On a super exhausted note, I'll try to answer all of your sweet, lovely messages in time!!! I'm not even exaggerating, a few of them really made me cry. Not almost, but for real. I don't know what I did to deserve all this kindness and love, but I really, really love you all! SO much!

[arabellasleopardcoat]

You have no idea how your reblog made me cry. I had forgotten I had written this fic (It's the second I posted, and you can tell by the quality of it) and you caught me in an especially sensistive day. When I wrote it, the only thing I intended was to tackle consent issues in Westeros with a kind partner, and it was right after I watched the episode where Aemond went looking for Aegon in the brothels. The way my skin crawled! Of course men can suffer it too, and I was glad to see it on screen, but I knew they probably wouldn't do it justice, which prompted me to write this. The butchered treatment they gave it in S2 (One could argue the opposite point too, considering it may as well be him going back to his groomer, yet they didn't tell or show that, did they?) vindicated me.

I have never read the ASOIAF books, and I stopped watching the show after the first season, because it was that triggering to me. The amount of violence towards Dany, Brienne, the casual cruelty of men like Tywin and Joffrey, it was enough to kill me a little.

The start of HOTD wasn't promising either. While it depicts sexual violence in a subtler manner, it is still there. Aemma and the horrible opening scene, Alicent and even Helaena and Aemond at some points have made me cry. I have also cried reading fics from these fandoms (Fem!Jon Snow has so fiercely disgusted me sometimes by the things they do to her I have not stopped thinking of it for days) and I found I didn't have the heart to write violence that aligned so much with what I myself suffered. For some readers it can be interesting or freeing, the same for the writers, and I am not here to judge. But it is not for me. And it will never be. I am aware that my writing might not be for everyone either, it's why you will see my fics always properly tagged, and exageratedly so. It is also why I have left other fandoms, which are centered around violence even more than this one.

I just wanted to write what I needed to read at the time. It is also why I will always hold some degree of empathy for show Aemond, despite knowing he is a war criminal. I am interested to see how his relationship with Alys will develop.

To hear that my fic has touched your heart for its themes, and that you didn't think me silly or something for not portraying him as some sort of insensitive, evil person who is absolutely unfeeling means more than you know.

Anyway, sorry for traumadumping (More like ranting) on you. Thank you for reading and for feeling so touched by my words you decided to let me know.

Death in four moves (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Queen Alicent is starting to notice your lack of pregnancy. You discuss it with your husband, and come out a stronger marriage because of it.

A/N: No one dies in this one, guys. Just quoting Tyrion. For a more detailed warning, click read more and scroll until after the dots.

Warnings: Fluff. Discussions of SA, sex, erotic novels, infertility, miscarriages, and pregnancies (None actually happen in the fic)

Catapult /ˈkatəpʌlt/

noun

a forked stick with an elastic band fastened to the two prongs, used by children for shooting small stones.

In Cyvasse, a catapult can take out a dragon.

“It’s the third month you bleed.” Queen Alicent said, with a hint of disapproval. She had perfected just the right amount of passive aggressiveness when being nosy. Your eye twitched slightly. You understood now the resentment Princess Rhaenyra held for her, with your sheets being examined by the Queen daily, your moon’s blood carefully tracked and advised on when the best moment was to conceive. “When will you make me a grandmother?”

You sipped at your tea, buying yourself a few seconds to answer. You were having tea in Haelena’s chambers, a family meeting, if you will. More like an intervention, truly. Alicent sat next to Aegon, who was in his cups already and seemed uncaring about the discussion.

“Mother, you are already a grandmother.” Aemond pointed at the hostess herself, who was on her hands and knees showing a bug to her children. The twins blabbered to her, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sweetness of the scene. Seated next to Aemond, you gently squeezed his forearm in silent thanks. His lips barely curved up into a smile. Despite his kindness in helping you out, you knew what the Queen’s response would be. It was like you were actors in a well-rehearsed play, one that had been repeating for the past six weeks.

“Yes, but those are your brother’s children. I want you two to make me a grandmother, too.” The Queen explained, smiling at him. The first month, there had been relative peace. Aemond couldn’t have knocked you up that fast, everyone reasoned. Not while still attending to his duties in the way he did. But when the second month came, and the sheets were stained red once more, Alicent had been disappointed.

Being Aemond’s wife was not an easy task. At the rate it was going, you were starting to think it would have been easier, inheritance disputes aside, to be married to Aegon. It was not that Aemond was unkind. On the contrary, he was most amenable. He cared about you, treating you with respect and even making efforts to be friendly. His mother was the problem.

You see, when the time came for Aemond to be married, Queen Alicent had handpicked you, from all the eligible ladies in the realm. The bride for his favorite children had to be perfect. She had had, I kid you not, a list. The girl Aemond married had to be smart, to be able to match him and converse about the topics that interested him, but not too educated, less she had ideas about her role in society. Devout to the Seven, but not superstitious. Brave, but not brazen. Kind, but not overly so, less she was too familiar with those beneath her. Pretty, but not one of those intimidating beauties or too aware of it. A maiden, pure and sweet, but not innocent. And so on, the list went. You weren’t too sure what she had seen in you, but she had decided you were perfect for him.

Aemond, mother’s boy as he was, had been willing to try. And he was pleasantly surprised with you. Yours wasn’t the most passionate of marriages, but you were good friends. He enjoyed your sense of humor, and you two liked the same books. Marriages were built on less. But there was the issue of consummation. Or well. There was no issue, since it hadn’t happened yet.

Neither of you dared tell Alicent that the first night, when you had come to him in your wedding gown, shaking with fear, he had done you the kindness of sitting on the bed with a goblet of wine and pulling out a deck of cards. You remembered clearly the way he had drawled, so effortlessly self-assured “I was uncertain whether you knew how to play Cyvasse, but guessed this was a safe bet.” You had nearly laughed in relief, sitting next to him and explaining you didn’t know how to play it, but cards you could do.

It had gone like that, for three long months. Aemond came to your chambers once a week, and you two played cards or just sat down talking for the whole night. He had even started teaching you Cyvasse. You didn’t mind it. He was an attractive man, your Prince, but you two had been strangers before the wedding. It was sweet, and you were a practical woman. You had all the perks of marrying a prince, and none of the hardships. If this were what your entire life would be like, you could handle it. And you would have, were it not for your mother-in-law.

A knock on the heavy wooden doors jolted you out of your thoughts. The guards announced the Grand Maester.

“Just on time.” Queen Alicent muttered, and became him over with an imperious hand. The old man stepped closer, holding a jar with some dirt? At least to you, it looked like that. The Queen took it from his hands, and opened it, grabbing your tea cup and stirring it into the drink before you could protest.

“Hare liver, pulverized with salmon. I had the maester prepare it for you, dear girl! You will have it at every meal.” Alicent beamed. Your grip on Aemond’s forearm became deathly. Aegon started laughing, before flinching suddenly. You weren’t able to tell if the one who had kicked him under the table had been your husband or your mother-in-law.

“I truly think there is no…” Aemond started to say, before getting interrupted.

“It is said to aid conception.” The Grand Maester bowed. His tone showed he wanted to be anywhere else but here, trapped between Alicent’s hopeful look, Aegon’s amusement and your indignant glare. His urge to leave was evident, not even flinching at the glare Aemond directed him for interrupting.

“Thank you, my Queen.” You answered, graciously. “Thank you as well, Grand Maester.” The man bowed again and exited the room. You eyed your now ruined tea, and Alicent. Her smile didn’t waver. You could tell she was waiting for you to drink it, and so, you smiled back and brought it to your lips.

It had to be the most foul concoction you had ever tasted. It was fishy and oily and oh so salty. You nearly spat it out, but controlled yourself, digging your nails into Aemond’s arm until he squirmed in pain. Aegon laughed again, before nearly choking in his haste to speak.

“Hey, what are you doing?!” While he laughed, you quickly took his cup and intended to drink his wine to get the taste out of your mouth. He made a grab for the wine, but so did Alicent.

“I read wine could harm conception.” She explained, passing it back to Aegon, who gave you a superior smirk.

“Mother, please. She looks like she is about to throw up.” Aemond pleaded and took the cup again. Aegon protested, but he brought the cup to your lips, urging you to drink from it. “Let her have it.”

“Aemond, I’m trying to help you both.” Alicent huffed. You quickly drank, less she tried grabbing the cup again. “We should do all that the books said. I have been reading on the topic, and I assure you…”

“I read…” Aegon interrupted loudly, giving you a wink. You knew he was about to do something disruptive, and that he would hold it over both yours and Aemond’s head for letting you escape. “Female pleasure is of the utmost importance for the woman to fall pregnant. So tell me, brother. Have you been pleasuring our dear…”

“Aegon!” Alicent yelled, slamming a hand over his mouth. “How can you say such things, with your children in the room? By the Seven, what will your brother’s wife think? That we are a family of…”

Aemond grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the room.

“You have to tell her.” You said, as soon as you were outside. He was gently pulling you along towards the gardens. “I’m not drinking anymore of that stuff. And careful, or else I will ask her to give you some too.” It had been the last straw. Your sheets being checked, you could take. Her not so subtle nudges towards laying with your husband on certain days, you could too. But being prohibited wine, and forced to take the concoction with every meal, was not something you were willing to do. Not when it was not an issue of fertility, but of the lack of… Intimate relations between you two.

“I don’t want to disappoint her.” It was said quietly, but it broke your heart. You took his hand and squeezed. One of the things you disliked about your new life was the amount of pressure Aemond was under. He had quickly become your best friend, and you liked to think you were his too. It hurt you, to see how much he pushed himself and how the nerves and worries ate him away. You knew perhaps he didn’t return your feelings, which had been steadily growing since the chaste kiss you had shared in the Sept, and all the sleepless nights spent playing games and talking, but you loved him. And it always hurt, when those you loved were in pain.

“I doubt you will. She loves you. Just because you would rather not be a father yet…” You smiled at him, trying to sound sure of yourself. In truth, you knew the Queen would be disappointed. She so wanted Aemond to be a father. He was her favorite. A baby from him would be a dream come true.

“I do want to be a father.” It was said very quietly, almost a confession. You turned towards him, unable to believe your ears. Aemond was pointedly looking towards a bush of roses, not making eye contact. His posture, normally so perfect, was a bit slouched, as if trying to curl into himself. Ashamed. He was no fool, to not be aware of your feelings, so that meant…

“Oh.” You blinked. It felt like something shattered inside you. It was not children he disliked, but you. A few tears sprang to your eyes, but you blinked them back, determined. You wanted him to be happy, even if not with you. Lowering your eyes, so he didn’t see your heartbroken expression, you answered.“Oh. Well. I’m still a maiden. We could ask the High Septon for an annulment.”

Aemond turned to look at you, bewildered. Then, a scowl took over his face, purple eye narrowing in anger.

“Annulment? Why would I want that? Is that what you want, an annulment?” His voice was starting to raise, slightly. You shushed him, frantically. But he kept going, stepping closer, hands grasping roughly at your shoulders. Aemond forced you to look him in the eyes. “You dislike me that much?”

“No. No. But if you are not attracted to me…” A few tears fell down your cheeks. You hated it. You didn’t want him to think you were manipulating him. It was distasteful, your mother had always said. Crying for a man to stay, it was not behavior befitting of you. “A lady should never beg for any man to stay. Not even a Prince.” She had always said, and you tried to live by it. But she had clearly never met Aemond.

Aemond’s lips pursed in the way they did when he was thinking about something deeply. Was he actually considering your offer? The thought made more tears spring to your eyes. He looked torn. So, this was it, you were going back home. Annulment and ruin. No one would believe you a maiden with Alicent’s efforts, with how often Aemond visited your rooms. Who in their right mind would think two young newlyweds were spending their nights playing cards and board games? It stung, to think you had had one job, and you had failed. Bed your husband. Produce children. Any child, not even a boy. It was meant to be easy. You were a failure.

Before your thoughts could spiral even further, towards becoming a Septa and watching the man you loved marry another, Aemond surprised you. With a shaking hand, he brushed your tears away.

“It’s not that, either. I like you. I might even love you.” Aemond’s eye doesn’t meet yours, and it’s only that what halts your heart from roaring in happiness. You frown, rubbing at your temples. A headache is starting. Why must everything be so difficult? He is saying the words you have longed to hear for weeks, yet… Something is off.

“You can say that you don’t like me. It’s alright.” Perhaps it is dishonesty. Perhaps he is only saying it, so you don’t feel bad. Aemond is considerate like that, never wanting to upset your feelings.

Aemond glares, giving you a stern look, as if daring you to try to explain his own feelings to himself. You shrink slightly.

“No. I like you, truly. It’s just that….” He trails off, and you want to scream out in frustration. Your temper is starting to rise, too.

“What? If you are so attracted to me, you should find it easy to bed me.” You spit out, almost daring him to contradict you.

“Nothing is that simple.” Aemond says, rolling his eye. You feel the urge to shake him, but you don’t. You are a Princess now. A Princess would not shake her Prince husband, no matter how foolish he acts. You breathe in, then out. Your response comes out, tersely.

“Love is a simple thing. It’s us who insist on complicating everything.”

“It is not my love for you, what makes me hesitate. First times can be…” And at that, you almost laugh in relief. So, that is what makes him hesitate? Fear of hurting you?

“Painful? I know, but I trust you.” You grab his hands in yours and look up at him, trying to showcase your sincerity. Your eyes are wide and earnest. But Aemond pulls out of your grasp, frustrated.

“'Tis I, who doesn’t trust you.”

You recoil, immediately pulling back. Your mother had always said you were a kind girl if a bit self-centered. And it was showing. You had never thought yourself the source of his worries, or had you ever thought he could think you're capable of hurting him.

“Aemond…” It comes out in a broken little sob. You knew people said things in fits of anger they didn’t mean, but you could tell he meant this. He didn’t trust you with his body.

Aemond tangles his hands in his hair, messing it up.

“Not like that. Just… You come to me pure, but I’m not. I have laid with a woman before.” It only makes you more confused. You are trying not to make assumptions, but it is a strange thing to say. It’s expected, especially for a man of his station. You wouldn’t have dared demand purity from him, in the way men demanded it from their wives. It was natural, even. Your positions in life were different. No one, not even the Queen herself, chided a man for his lack of chastity.

“Alright. I don’t mind it.” You answer, tentatively. You really hope, this time, you get it right. But the silence that follows is defeating.

Aemond’s hands ball into fists by his side. He loosens them, before balling them again. He is trying to hide their trembling from you, you realize. A pit forms in your stomach, knowing that whatever he is about to tell you, it’s bad. Something so terrible it might be better to not even speak it aloud. You have seen this man get into fights with his nephews, spitting out the worst slurs. You have seen him defeated by Ser Criston, beaten up, bruised badly. You have seen him hurt by his father's lack of care, cast aside in favor of others. But never once, never once, shaking in the way he is now. It terrifies you.

You don’t dare touch him, or comfort him in any way, when he is trying to calm down so hard. His breath is shallow, posture hunched, as if trying to fight the instinct to flight.

“It was not a good experience. I… I fear it would be like that, between us, and taint our marriage.” Aemond says, very quietly. His eye looks watery, his mouth set into a grim line. As if about to cry. You can tell, that whatever happened, it was much worse than what he says.

“Oh.” It’s all you can say. It had not crossed your mind, that it wasn’t you what repelled him, but the act itself. You long to hug him, but can tell touch is not what he wants, right now. You remember then, all the times he evaded touches from others, so skillfully. The ducking of an arm when Aegon tries to hug him, turning it into play fighting and roughhousing. How he never initiates affection with the Queen or Haelena. How he has never touched you, apart from a pat on the arm or holding your hand. Or how his palms get so sweaty when he has to do it. How he has not kissed you since your wedding. Perhaps, even the fact that he is always dressed in clothes that cover him completely.

Never having thought about it before, his quirks start to make sense in a way you don’t want them to. It hurts, to think of him being hurt in such a way. It is not something you had thought could happen to a man, but it makes too much sense to ignore. Whatever cloud appears in your eyes, it’s too much for Aemond to handle.

“Oh.” He mocks you, chucking your chin. It’s a gesture meant to put your mind at ease, show you that this is not an unsavable obstacle. You are thankful to him for it, even if it comes at the cost of being the butt of the joke that’s not even funny, much less with the topic you are discussing. But you can pretend for him. You smile, softly.

“Do you wish to speak about it?”

“Perhaps some other day."

Dragon /ˈdraɡ(ə)n/

noun

a mythical monster resembling a giant reptile, sometimes shown as having wings. In European tradition, the dragon is typically fire-breathing and tends to symbolize chaos or evil, whereas in East Asia it is usually a beneficent symbol of fertility, associated with water and the heavens.

In Cyvasse, a dragon can remove elephants from the board.

Aemond pulls down the screen dividing the board. He gives you a smug little look, laying down on the bed only in his sleep shirt. You try hard not to stare, focusing instead on the pieces on the board.

Your catapults are gone, and only your elephants remain. He has captured your King with a Dragon. It’s an odd move. You either are not remembering right or he is cheating.

“That’s cheating! You said the dragon could only move…” You start to complain, frowning at him.

“Diagonally, which is right.” He answers very calmly, looking at you in expectation. You examine the board from all angles, noting that he is right, and he has not cheated. Unless playing with a greatly disadvantaged player is cheating because in that case, Aemond most definitely is.

You take a deep breath and lay down next to him, forgetting the board. Oh, you can feel his pride at having bested you, even without looking at him. And of course, he keeps shifting on the bed, jostling you, lest you forget what you have to do. It’s the customary price, after all. A way to encourage to actually pay attention to his instructions about how the game is played, but also a way for a young couple to start getting to know each other. Your cheeks heat up immediately, when you decide what you will say. You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly and mumble so low, it can barely be heard over the crackling fire that lights up the room.

“Fine. As a young girl, I used to steal my father’s dagger and make other children knights with it. I loved playing Queen.”

Aemond laughs, a deep, sincere laugh. His eye crinkles at the corner, a pair of tiny dimples making themselves known. You like how true laughter lights up his face, you decide. It’s cute, but not something that often happens.

“That must have been adorable, wife.” Aemond smiles at you, boyishly. He is about to tease you, you know it. Your heart melts just a little more. “I apologize for being but a lowly Prince.” You start to laugh, but the laughter dies in your throat with his next words. “Perhaps I can indulge you.”

You rush to correct the treasonous words, scared. Aemond is an ambitious man, you have known that from the start. Just as ambitious as he is dutiful, your husband. But you can’t help but wonder if in this case, ambition outweighs the duty he feels towards his family. You don’t know him enough to make a judgment yet. So very gently, with your pulse ringing loud in your ears, you speak.

“I like Aegon. No matter if he is a drunk fool, sometimes. And your father is pretty boring, but alright. And Princess Rhaenyra." You don't say anything positive about her, not when you had learned through this same technique she had demanded Aemond was punished after losing his eye. If you had a chance, you would strangle her. But only a little. Otherwise, it would be treason, and it would be setting the wrong example. Queen Alicent always told you it was best to lead with your actions, and not only your words.

Aemond smiles, pushing your shoulder lightly.

"Not like that.” He complains, but gives you a long look regardless. You know he has noticed your slip, referring to Rhaenyra as an afterthought and only after Aegon. He knows now, without you having told him, what your thoughts on succession are. He is perceptive like that. “I was thinking more along the lines of crowning you my Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“You never compete in tourneys, husband.”

“For you, I would. If you wished to be Queen, for you, I would.” And it feels like Aemond is promising something else, something more than just being the one to get a crown of pretty flowers. It scares you a little, to be the focus of such devotion. Such honeyed words, too, which you know are unusual for him. The urge to kiss him is strong, but his confession, a few days backs, still weighs heavily between you too. He has definitely noticed you are more careful with your touches now. Still playful, but giving ample time to pull away. Yet, you can’t leave him hanging either. Not when Aemond is trying so hard for you two to work.

“I would, too. You would look handsome, with a flower’s crown.” And thinking yourself so sly, you slide your hand underneath his, laughing. Aemond laughs too, and pulls you towards him, trying to get you to put your head on his chest. You do so eagerly, listening to his heartbeat. At first, it is rushed, and he remains stiff, despite being the one to initiate the embrace. But slowly, Aemond relaxes and starts carding a hand through your hair. You think it feels much like what heaven must feel like.

The motion lulls you to that state between sleep and consciousness, where your head feels fuzzy and full of cotton, and your movements are sluggish. It feels like a dream, the way the shadows dance on the wall, and how his heart pounds steadily under you. You wish you could sink into him, fuse the two of you, as the Maesters of old said soulmates were. Nestle close to his heart, curl around it with greedy little hands, protect him from the world. Your eyelids drop, despite your fight to stay awake. Aemond smiles down at you, amused, and runs his hand over the slope of your nose, tracing the contours of your face. You scrunch your face at him, about to scold him for disturbing you, when he speaks. At first, it doesn’t make sense to you. And then, you realize.

“I was thirteen. Aegon took me to a brothel. I…” It feels like being stabbed, over and over again, tiny sparks of pain in your chest. In your mind’s eye, you can see him. A slightly younger version of Daeron, perhaps with longer hair. A big, purple eye, the other side of his face freshly scarred. Tiny. Terrified. And that you know because you know his growth spurt didn’t hit until he was fifteen, courtesy of your cyvasse games. You also know he was painfully shy and quiet, the product of a childhood filled with mockery and neglect. That, too, he had shared, after a game you knew Aemond had lost deliberately, feeling you were losing more embarrassing stories than he was sharing. Still, you hadn’t minded.

It hurts to think of your awfully kind husband being taken against his will. You doubt, had you been him, you could have survived it. Being violated so… It aches so bad, tears start filling your eyes. But you do not speak, less you break the spell and Aemond clams back up.

“I… I didn't want you to think I was weak. You are one of the loveliest things I have had, in a long time.” He says, voice breaking slightly. You shift in his grip, and look him right in the eye.

“You are not weak.” You enunciate, clearly and slowly. And you hope your sincerity shines through your eyes because you do believe it. Unable to speak a word, silenced as he was by shame, you think you would have broken much earlier. That Aemond stands, whole, before you and speaks the words aloud after so much time, says leagues about his character.

“I was meant to come out of it a man. It went…wrong.” He tries explaining, but you shake your head.

“You were not in the wrong.” You make a mental note to try to strangle Aegon later. You had known he was a… Interesting character, to say it kindly. But this�� This took the cake on reckless, thoughtless behavior. He was at least three years older than Aemond, yet he had not half the sense his brother posses. Perhaps, your husband is better suited to be king. After living three months with the Targaryens, you were starting to doubt their closeness to gods. You stomp down your personal grievances, knowing Aemond needs love, not rage.

“May I hug you?” You ask, softly. Aemond laughs, a little watery, and pulls you on top of him. He hides his face in your hair, sobbing softly. You fantasize of killing half the whores of Flea Bottom, Aegon, Viserys and perhaps Alicent, too. You fall asleep like that, limbs entangled with each other and forgoing your ritual of messing up the room and your appearances. Despite it, the next morning, the maids who find you are more convinced than ever before of your closeness.

Elephant /ˈɛlɪf(ə)nt/

noun

a very large plant-eating mammal with a prehensile trunk, long curved ivory tusks, and large ears, native to Africa and southern Asia. It is the largest living land animal.

In Cyvasse, each player has multiple elephants.

It takes you a few sleepless nights to try to find a solution to your problem. Despite being praised often for how learned and bright you were, you couldn’t find an answer to your questions. You see, you have always been a planner. You tackled your concerns by doing research about them and then coming up with an action plan. But there was no research to be done here. You had to work with the facts.

You knew Aemond was not willing to confess to his mother. Nor were you about to betray his trust. But she would keep pressuring, for you to fall pregnant. You could buy time, faking an illness or perhaps even a pregnancy followed with a miscarriage. Yet, you had been chosen not only as Aemond’s companion, but to bring the next generation of Targaryens to the world. And both of you wanted children. He was too proud for letting you get pregnant and pass the baby as his own. Not with the situation with his nephews.

So. You were back to square one. You had to find a way for both of you to have children, and not traumatize Aemond about it. And get Alicent off your back. Research. You could do research about how a lady ended up with a child.

You poured long hours over medicine treaties and concluded this: It was not his member that had to go inside you, but his seed. It would also be useful if you broke your maidenhead in some way, less you ended up trying to give birth still a virgin. So, in theory, Aemond didn’t need to enter you. Just collect his seed, and perhaps you could pour it inside you with a jar or something. Still, you put that thought on the back burner, as a plan b. Oftentimes, the best solution was not the most complex one, and so, you had to at least try to perform intimacy with you. But you didn’t want him to suffer, and so, you decided to approach one of your maids about it.

“Dyana.” You said, as the girls were unlacing your gown and unpinning your hair for bed. “Stay.”

It was low, what you were about to do. But you knew of none else who had gone through something similar. Dyana had been appointed as your maid after having the unwelcome attentions of Aegon on her. There was nothing that could be done, not when the King was so ill, Alicent had told you. She wouldn’t subject him to having to pass judgment on his own son, not in his state. And besides, there had been no harm done, with the girl not falling pregnant. At the time, you hadn’t questioned it. Now, it made you sick to think your brother-in-law, who was always supportive of you in front of his mother, could have hurt her in such a way.

Dyana stayed behind, brushing your hair in front of the vanity. The other maids scurried out in a flock of dresses and chatter. You met her eyes through the mirror, in low candlelight. She was the Targaryen kind of pretty, with hair so blonde it almost looked like theirs. Perhaps that had attracted Aegon.

“I understand you were forcefully subjected to Prince Aegon’s… Advances.” You said, once you were alone. Dyana was very tense, obviously reminding the last time she had been alone with a member of the royal family. You decided to spare her the anxiety over what you wanted, if any, to make this shameful act you were committing a bit less traumatizing. “I have questions about it, from woman to woman.”

The brush clattered to the floor. Dyana’s eyes turned from anxious to terrified. She was frozen, unable to bend down and pick it up. You turned in your stool, to reassure her.

“I'm not going to punish you. I don’t want to know about the act, or reprimand you or blame you.”

Dyana bent down to pick up the brush. Her shoulders remained tense.

“I only want to ask a question. And you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to… But if you do, I will reward you handsomely.” You tried putting her at ease, using a soft voice. Much like with Aemond, you stuck to not sudden moves and no touching. To show her that you were serious, you pulled a handful of gold dragons, letting them clatter on your vanity’s table, next to the bottles of expensive lotions and perfumes Aemond had bought you. “But my husband can never know. No one can ever know.”

Dyana raised her head at the sound. She looked at the gold, and stood, anxiously wringing her hands together.

“Milady… That’s a lot of gold for a question.” Dayna’s eyes were fixed on the ground.

“It’s an important question. It requires utmost secrecy.” You answered, handing her half. “For keeping this conversation private, even if you would rather not answer me.”

Dyana took the gold, quickly hiding it inside her pocket. She seemed to fear you were playing a joke on her and would take the gold away at any time. You didn’t blame her, with how badly she had been treated so far. Keeping her waiting would be even more cruel than what you had already done, and so, you asked.

“How do you trust again, after it?” It was a clumsily worded questions, asked in a rush and in a single breath. It came out more like “Howdoyoutrustagain, after… It.” Not the most dignified wording, either. You were supposed to be eloquent, smart. Yet, you were floundering as an overzealous child.

“I…” She had clearly understood, by the look on her face, but didn’t know what to say. How to approach it. Dayna stepped closer, scrutinizing your face. Searching. But for what?

“How can you lay with a man again?” You repeated, trying to sound a bit more self-assured and narrowing down your line of questioning. You knew she was currently in a relationship with a stable boy. He always picked her up on the nights you and Aemond were supposed to bed each other.

Dayna looked at you, expression doing a full one eighty. Her eyes stopped being frightened and turned sad. One of her hands went again to brush your hair, almost in comfort.

“It is not the same man. And. Um. Never in the same way, my lady. He asks. All the time. And not like…” She trailed off, concerned. You didn’t notice, too busy committing her advice to memory. “My lady, you should really speak to the Queen….”

At those words, your head jerked up. Why did she bring up Alicent? Did she really think you could ask her about intimate relationships? Unless… She thought Aemond was… Oh, by the Seven, that was even worse.

“Aemond is not mistreating me. But my cousin’s husband is. I just don’t know what to tell her, having been so lucky.” You lied, trying to sound as convincing as you could. But you knew she wasn’t believing a word out of your mouth.

“Can they mend things?” Dyana asked, and it was obvious she didn’t buy that you were asking for a friend.

“From what I gather.” You answered, tersely. Of that, you were certain. Aemond liked you enough to at least try. You would consult him first, making sure he was not uncomfortable with the idea, but you knew he felt the grains of sand on both your clocks draining, as you did. Time was something you didn’t have. But Dyana didn’t know any of that. She was asking you, even if covertly, if you thought your husband could not be a brute. It showed, in the way her eyes filled with pity.

“Tell her to ask him to be soft. And… Not that, right away.” Dyana blushed, lowering her eyes in embarrassment. You gave her a puzzled glance, confused. If not intimacy, right away, what did she mean? Kissing? “Go slow, do something else….”

“Like?” You tilted your head to the side, hoping for a clarification.

“Mouth. Fingers.” The girl looked like she was about to hide under the table from embarrassment. And truly, it was a bit strange. An unmarried maid teaching a lady about intimacy.

“Oh.” You frowned. Dayna squeezed your shoulder, with very soft hands. “Thank you.”

King /kɪŋ/

noun

the male ruler of an independent state, especially one who inherits the position by right of birth.

In Cyvasse, the goal is to kill the King.

Your research had led you to A Caution For Young Girls. A popular novel between the common folk and that had costed you great effort to acquire. The plan had included a horse, a chicken, Aegon, and a copy of the Seven Pointed Star you had had to defile. You prayed that the Seven forgave you, both for reading such dirty tales and for destroying a copy of their sacred book to hide the book you were really reading. That day, even Queen Alicent had mistaken your newfound devotion for the Seven for a lady praying for a child and had pointed to you as an example for Aegon. In truth, you had been on your knees before the effigy of the Mother begging for forgiveness, and not a child.

It had been for a better cause, you told yourself. If truly were the gods who gave the Targaryens their right to rule, it meant they were favored among the rest of the men. Surely, finding a way to procure a child to one of the most pious, gentle Princes the realm had to offer justified your actions. Surely, Aemond’s devotion made up for your sins, or at least, the seven prayers you had recited under each of their effigies did. Surely, right?

Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing something bad. Literature is meant to open the mind. That’s why yours and Aemond’s studies had been encouraged from a young age. And the novel had certainly opened your mind to new ways of being intimate. You had no clue there were so many ways one could use their mouth, fingers, and openings. And if you had felt aroused by reading it… Literature was meant to be enjoyed, too.

So, the next time you and Aemond were alone, you said there was something you needed to talk to him about. You brought out your notes, and took the Cyvasse board away from the table, placing your research there instead. Aemond’s eyebrows raised at seeing you pull out such an amount of parchment, yet he said nothing.

“You want to be a father. I want to be a mother. We are married. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I have researched for two possible ways of achieving it. Watch…” You pulled out a diagram, crudely drawn. You grabbed a stick, much like the one your Septa used to teach you when you were a child, and were about to start explaining, when Aemond interrupted.

“Is that supposed to be…” Aemond had the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. “A… Um… Is that…?”

“Yes, now shut up. I’m trying to explain my plan.” You answered, not even the slightest bit ashamed. Couldn’t he see you were explaining your research? “You see, we don’t actually need to have any kind of sexual contact for me to fall pregnant. We just need to insert your seed…” It was said in a very clinical manner, but Aemond interrupted, again.

“Wife, I know how conception works.” Now he was fully blushing, and you frowned. It was not your intention to make him uncomfortable, so you decided to go straight to the point.

“Alright, so we will skip that part. Fine. We have two options. You either pleasure yourself and spill in a jar, or we build up to intimacy. I researched the way to make that the least traumatizing for you as possible, too.”

Aemond looked at you, for one long second. The silence stretched, and you worried this was going to end up with losing him in the most painful way you could imagine. Your blooming relationship, dead by your tactless hand. Aemond stared some more, his eye narrowed. Then, he burst out laughing. You felt so embarrassed you hoped the earth would open up and swallow you whole.

The both of you stayed like that. Aemond laughing so hard tears sprang from his eyes, and you, diagram still in hand, with what Aemond would later swear was the cutest pout he had ever seen.

“This has to be both the sweetest and strangest thing someone has ever done for me.” He finally said, drying his tears.

“You are not mad? Or hurt?” You asked, eyeing him a bit suspiciously, but with a smile of your own.

“Come here.” Aemond widened his stance, and you stepped closer, giving in to his unspoken request for you to stand between his parted legs. With a touch so light, it might not even be there, Aemond tilted your head down and kissed you. You felt as if the world stopped, for a minute. The kiss was clumsy, with him sitting and you standing but you could swear it was the kind of kiss the poets wrote about. You let him lead you, reminding Dyana’s advice, and you could feel the way he smiled against your mouth for it.

“I made my decision.” Aemond said, as you pulled away to take some well-needed breaths of air. Your mind felt like mush, with how dizzying the kiss had been. You had not a single clue what he was talking about.

“Huh?”

“We will try to have the children the normal way. I can learn to trust you enough for it.” And it felt like your heart was singing, with how happy you were. You smiled brightly at him. It was an honor that he was willing to trust you that much, that he was willing to try. You knew, were you him, you would have hesitated more. Aemond was a brave man, you had to give it to him.

You wanted to kiss him silly. But you had promised yourself to keep things at his pace, were he to choose this path. And so, you asked.

“Hug?”

Aemond laughed, and pulled you closer, burying his face on your chest. You hugged back, holding him.

“So, what did your research say? About building up intimacy?” Aemond shifted, looking up at you, purple eye shining with mirth. You spluttered, slapping his shoulder. He laughed again. “You know, in all seriousness… The Seven have given me a strange woman. But I wouldn’t change you for anything.”

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.

.

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Detailed warning: Aemond confesses to the reader that the reason they haven’t had sex yet is not a lack of desire but a bit of fear, and describes what happened to him when he was thirteen. The reader does her research and presents it to him, crudely, but he is touched by her gesture.

As a fellow SA survivor, I hope I have managed to portray the struggle to trust a partner again in a manner that is both tasteful and fluffy, with an adequate dose of humor and awkwardness. Writing Honesty raised a few thoughts on the matter of consent in Westeros. I never got to finish GOT because of the same issue. My heart ached for Aemond during the brothel scene, and I wondered about it a lot. I have yet to see it portrayed in any fanfiction. I apologize in advance if it made anyone uncomfortable.

[meanbossart]

Hey, I was just thinking about Drow as a companion, you've talked a little about what you think he would be like. Have you thought about how he would act at the goblin vs. the tiefling party in act one?

Good question! Supporting the grove happens to be one of those unambiguously good choices that he is 100% behind. He finds Khaga (and the druids in general) to be insufferable, despises Minthara because she's a drow and a cultist, and most importantly cares about the tiefling children's safety. Because of this, he will likely be unhappy about the grove being raided... Yet, not enough to leave the party or strongly challenge a Tav on it. Massacring the grove would sate that blood-lust in himself, and he would draw pleasure from it, despite it going against his bare-bones morality. DU drow would be too conflicted about his own feelings about it to express himself strongly one way or another after the deed is done, kind of like Shadowheart reacts to the whole ordeal.

If you save the grove, you will find him sampling from Mol's secret wine stash. Mol tells you they cut a deal and you can either pay her the 100 gold you "owe" her for his antics, or tell her to sod off.

You can then find DU drow hidden away and drinking himself into a stupor. He's still coherent but occasionally slurring his words, clearly a really experienced drunk. He talks about Mol, how he thinks she's a riot and just thought he'd teach her a valuable lesson about business. If you ask him why he's isolated himself, he will jokingly say he's too humble to be showered in all this praise. You can succeed an insight check to find out that he's nervous about something.

If you ask what he thinks about what you've done, he's expresses indifference about the adults but, again, that he's glad the children are okay.

Tav: You're drinking like a man with a guilty conscience. Just to remind you - we're the good guys tonight. The drow: (Scoffs) The hellspawn aren't making it far. They are too... too bright-eyed. We've only put-off the inevitable. ...I only lament the fates of the children. The little sods didn't choose this life. Tav: They're clever enough. I'm sure they'll be alright. The drow: Cleverness can only get you so far. They're still little.

You can trigger his romance here, but you can't have sex with him yet. Through being flirtatious but not pushy he will promise you to pick this up another time, when he's not quite so indisposed. The scene would trigger during the next event-less long-rest.

In the goblin party, on the other hand, he will be found standing at his tent as normal. He's sober and there's no nervousness to be uncovered through any checks, in fact, he doesn't seem to be in too foul a mood - but he does treat you with a degree of coldness.

Tav: You seem a little pouty. Don't tell me you're sour about a few dozen dead tieflings. The drow: Not at all - the ceremony was quite lovely, I'm just finding the reception to be... Lackluster. Tav: Oh - the goblins aren't worth your company, your highness? The drow: They aren't even worth roasting for supper. To make no comment of the head-fanatic - you'd be spewing her out both ends for days, if you chose to indulge.

As long as you don't antagonize him for his diarrhea joke, you get to actually have sex with him that very night as well as trigger the romance.

As an addition - if he's in your party he will actually kill Minthara when she tries to turn against you in the middle of the night. You still have to fight all of the goblins after this, but she will have her throat slit by him during the cutscene. This means you can only recruit both of them if you knock her out at the goblin camp.

[galactipunks]

I was recently exposed to the rabbit hole that is Minecraft horror mods and it honestly really disappointed me. So much so that I thought up my own horror mod in response with some key distinctions to make it feel actually scary:

Be as subtle as possible to the point that the player can't tell whether a mod or a weird glitch is causing the effects. Not only is it scarier to take advantage of the existing horror within vanilla but doing this would really mess with veteran players who know the game in-and-out.

Rely on ambient psychological horror. No jumpscares, no threats, no escalation, not even anything flatly disadvantageous. The mod would just weaponize the player's paranoia against themselves.

Be really nefarious as to take full advantage of the insane adjustability that Minecraft has with all its internal options, gamerules and mechanics as well as use the player's acquaintance of the game against them. It should be a horror idea that could only work within Minecraft.

So here's the idea I got from all of this (mind you, I have no idea if a mod like this already exists):

Every in-game day there's a 5% chance (3% if you slept with a bed) for an event to occur from this mod. This chance is fixed and never changes. When an event occurs, its chosen randomly from a very exhaustive list of different events and (depending on what type of event it is) will either occur once or persist until the next event. The likelihood of every event is identical. So this system for pulling them is entirely static and random. Additionally, the chance is rolled again whenever an event occurs. Meaning there's an incredibly low chance for you to experience two or more events in the same day.

So what do these events do? Well, they're designed to mess with the player in the most subtle ways possible. Often specifically targeting their memory, understanding of game mechanics and overall familiarity with Minecraft. The intended effect is to give the player a creeping sense of powerlessness in a sandbox game that they are otherwise completely in control over. Some possible events could be:

Hearing a sound effect in the distance from a source that isn't real.

Having an item currently in a chest/furnace change its amount or position.

Replacing a current painting sprite with another one of the same size.

Having a door/trapdoor be activated (i.e. opened if it was closed and closed if it was opened).

Skipping a full day from sleeping rather than just the night.

Having a specific gamerule temporarily change from its default value until the player triggers it (with minor adjustments to make it less apparent. For example still having the player drop their inventory upon death when keepInventory is toggled on but having the items despawn near instantly unless another player was nearby).

Having a tamed/trusting mob despawn (but only if the player had not interacted with them or been near them for a while).

Surviving otherwise fatal damage or dying from otherwise near-fatal damage.

Randomly changing the difficulty or local difficulty (without it being visible in the options or the debug screen).

Randomly changing slime chunks.

Randomly changing the moon phase.

The list goes on.

These are not notable events but that's the point. The intended effect is to confuse the player and make them doubt themselves without ever thinking that a mod is responsible. To make things even more nefarious, you could have this mod be disguised as a typical QoL mod and sneak it into modpacks to really mess with people.

This is the kind of horror that I think suits Minecraft best. Not the loud, overt, in-your-face kind of horror. But the kind that has you slowly begin to doubt yourself and the world around you. No escalation, no climax, no resolution. Just you left alone to consume yourself out of your own paranoia.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In a Place Like This 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob! Frank Castle

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: your efforts to be left alone find you in bad company.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You live in a bad neighbourhood. A lot of people do. No one would choose to live there. You just sort of end up where life dumps you. All you can do is figure out how to get through it. 

One eye over your shoulder at all time. That’s how. You can’t let your guard down. Not ever. Not even behind the grated windows of your apartment. Not even with the sun out and children playing across the street. 

That day, you’re on alert. The guy was at the diner during your shift. You remember he sent his eggs back for being too cold despite the steam roiling off them. You should’ve known he was one of those. Trying to find any reason to get a free plate. You didn’t bring him a second. If he wanted one, he could pay his bill up front. 

He waited. You didn’t expect that kind of patience from him. He’s more of the instant gratification sort. That’s probably what he thinks going to happen. 

You slip your hand over your purse subtly. You don’t let your gait slow, you don’t quicken. You keep it as it is. You have to let him believe he’s smarter than you. He’s stronger, no doubt, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

You push your hand through the zipper. Your fingers hook through the brass loops and you grip them tight. You’re a scrapper. You can do what needs to be done, even if you hate it. 

He snickers as you turn down the alley that cuts through behind Jack’s Pawn Shop. The old man keeps a bat under his counter and pistol in his belt. He’ll chase away the idiot if you don’t have to first. 

He thinks he has you. Let him. Over-confidence breeds stupidity. You know what never fails. Minding your business. 

You pass the dumpsters and that’s when he breaks into a sprint. You spin out of his way, only for him to crash into the metal crate. You don’t have time to react as you swing without a clear sight. You hit something. Someone. 

The griper from the diner is wrestled down beneath another man. His skull cracks off the pavement as the second stranger straddles him breathlessly and touches his cheek. There’s a split in the flesh from where you caught him. 

“Shit,” he shakes his head. “Got a hell of a left hook.” 

You back away and pull your arm back, “sure do.” 

“Ah, calm down,” he stands and nudges the unsatisfied diner with his boot. “I was following this dipshit, not you.” 

“Mhmm,” you hum doubtfully. 

You back up, keeping your arm cocked. He turns to watch you. He scoffs and tilts his head, looking you up and down. 

“You don’t got surprise on your side now. Won’t be as easy the second time.” 

You arch a brow and and grip the knuckles even tighter. He chuckles. “Told ya, I’m not interested in you.” 

“Never to careful with you lot,” you sneer as you edge away. He doesn’t move. 

“You lot?” He echoes curiously. 

“Criminals. All of ya,” you spit. 

He snorts and puts his hands on his hips. You curl your lip as you continue your retreat. As you get to the end of the alley, you shake your head. You tuck the knuckles back in your purse and keep your fingers hooked in them. 

You can never be too safe. 

💀

Another day at the diner. It’s dead after two in the afternoon. Kids are in school, lunch is over, and pay day is still around the corner. You lazily wipe the counter as you stare at the box TV perched on the old ledge. The news tallies off another casualty count; the anchor recounting the glorified account of a robbery uptown. The one down at Tina Lou’s is conveniently unreported. 

The bell above the door chimes. You sigh. The job pays your bills, the tips are small but money is money, and no one’s in the habit of hiring without a degree and some nepotistic internship down at daddy’s office. Your father didn’t work in an office. Well, you don’t know shit about your father. 

You’re not much for customer service but Alfie didn’t hire you for that. He hires the ones who can keep the diners in check. The one’s that make sure the bill is paid. 

You grab the carafe of stale coffee and approach the table as the man strips off his leather jacket. He’s one of them. You can tell by his shoulders, the way he postures and looks around like he pays for the electricity. 

You flip his cup and as you pour, he looks at you. You meet his gaze, undaunted. You narrow your eyes bluish bruise over his cheek bone and the fresh gash there. What are the odds? 

You don’t believe in coincidences. 

“How’s the hand, sugar?” He glances at your hand as you pour. Your left. They’re still tender. “Put ice on it?” 

You straighten up and hold the coffee urn steady. “Just the coffee?” 

One side of his mouth curls, “I’ll take a grilled cheese and some of those fries. Can you have Vin put on some friend onions too?” 

His mention of the cook isn’t said without weight. He wants you to know what he knows. He knows Vinny, he knows Alfie, and now he knows you. He makes a show of reading your name tag. 

“Grilled cheese, fries, onions,” you recite plainly. 

“And if you can change the channel, that’d be nice. Hate these squawking parrots,” he pushes his shoulders back and spreads his knees wide under the table. 

You turn without another word and set the carafe on the burner. You go to the window and put in the order. Vinny grunts. You swipe the remote and march over to the occupied table. As you do, a pair of diner stops outside, push the door in only and inch before thinking better of it. You watch them flee past the windows as they stare at the man at the table. 

You put the remote in front of him. He tilts his head back to look at you, “Frank Castle.” He introduces himself. “But a woman like you already knows that, don’t ya?” 

Your eyes flick up and down. His features are bullish and thick. His nose shows signs of a break at some point and his brown eyes are as dark as pits.

“Hard to tell one of ya from the next.” 

You spin and go back to the counter, once more dragging the cloth over the surface. He snorts and shakes his head as he laughs to himself. He mutters but you can’t make out his words. You agree. It’s silly that a man like him is trying to intimidate a waitress. Business must be slow. 

[legalandnotease]

This is what is known as a suspicously specific denial. Tony fans absolutely believe Bucky does not deserve support or redemption and alwas have.

They have believed every day for 9 years that Bucky deserves to die and it pains them that Tony did not kill him.

Why? Simple: he commited the only unforgivable sin in their sight: he hurt Tony.

They will say things like "I am not blaming him" to cover this fact. They are blaming him. They do believe he's beyond redemption and they want him dead. They always have.

The rest of this is so much desperate reaching.

While people blame Tony for not accepting that Bucky’s not in control and is changed, they forget and ignore the fact that in less than 48 hours, Tony himself experienced proof to the opposite.

Tony has faced *far more dangerous* opponents than a man with a hand gun. Which is all Bucky was in that scene. A man with a hand gun.

Tony had before this point faced gods, genocidal murderbots of his own making. Terrorists. Clint Barton tried to kill him in Avengers. Yet oddly, Tony fans don't demand his death for that.

A man with a gun was *nothing* to Tony. He had entered that situation equipped to defend himself and knowing there might be danger. We are shown in the movie that Tony also absolutely knew about Bucky's mind control. He called him Manchurian Candidate, after a character in a movie who was captured by the Soviets, brainwashed into becoming an assassin and triggered using certain words. The parallels are undeniable.

Even Sebastian Stan made the comparison. The fact Tony called Bucky that reveals he knows what had happened to Bucky in great detail. He even knows about the trigger words: which means he also knows that Bucky is not inherently dangerous.

So the real point of this post @elenajones23 is to try and justify Tony's murder of Bucky in Siberia by presenting Bucky as dangerous and Tony's actions not as a deliberate revenge-killing, which multiple canon sources confirm it was, but as some kind of jusifiable self-defense.

It was no such thing. Tony in Siberia was the opposite of defenseless. He was in a suit that could withstand a bomb blast, laden with weapons, trying to brutally murder a then unarmed man in revenge.

Bucky was never a serious danger to him. Even 48 hours before, and he knew it. Tony fans just pretend it is so because they don't want to admit their "hero" is a vindictive and sadistic would-be murderer.

I always see Anti-Team Cap and Pro-Tony discuss how Tony attacking Bucky and Steve was justified and made sense, and yes, I totally agree with them, and regardless of the fact that Tony attacked Steve first because Steve was the one who lied and betrayed him, there is one thing that I haven’t seen be discussed much.

And it’s this scene right here:

Look at Tony’s face. Look at the shock and fear.

Bucky had no way of knowing that Tony could have protected himself, and he aimed right at Tony’s head. Look at the proximity of the weapon to Tony’s face. He could’ve blown his mind clear off if Tony wasn’t fast enough.

Tony had absolutely no way of knowing that Bucky “had changed” when literally just what? Days? Hours? Moments? ago, he could’ve died at Bucky’s hands.

That’s all I have to say.

[nownahc]

things in a relationship that reminds me of them | seventeen

▶• ılıılıılılıılıılı. my love mine all mine by mitski

synopsis. just lovely, gentle, sweet stuff i picture when i see the members

all members x reader

main masterlist

seungcheol

physical intimacy is a big matter in a relationship for him. he's really into the type of touches that gives his lover -and him- goosebumps. brush of hands, nuzzling against their neck, fingertips trailing their back or arms, a squeeze on their knees, etc. if it's reciprocated too, he'd be in heaven, seungcheol is all about giving yes, but he thinks it's fair game that he receives too. physical intimacy is a high level of trust for him. to be able to touch someone like that is extremely important to him, and he'll always be careful with it.

jeonghan

with jeonghan, there's something in his gaze, in his demeanour that screams home. to him, love equals comfort. he'd like to be his lover's safe space, and would like that in return. to be yourself with someone, truly yourself is a rare thing. for him, if love is involved, acceptance is too. wether his lover is talkative or quiet, clingy or detached, organized or messy, he can deal with everything as long as love is involved. he's basically a home to his lover, a home where they get to be or do whatever they want.

joshua

remembers every quirk and habits of his lover. to him, there's something extremely private in knowing someone's every little thing. how they take their coffee, how long is their attention span, what noise triggers them the most, what kind of mood they are in, etc. being attentive is a huge love sign for him. it means that he cares deeply enough to watch and most of all, remember. he's pretty low key about it though so it takes time for his lover to notice just how much joshua see them.

jun

support, support, support. jun seeks a pillar in a relationship, and he's willing to be a strong one too. he's extremely adamant in giving strength to his lover in whatever they want to be or do. would attend events, remember important dates, help them with their projects, etc. he would even brag about it to other people. to him, dreams are important, so seeing his significant other being able to fulfill them, fill him with utter joy.

hoshi

it doesn't matter if it's a distance relationship or if he can see you every night after schedule, he'll give his significant other daily updates about the most mundane things. it can be anything, what he ate, a stain on his shirt, a dog in the street, a bruise he made during practice, stuff that reminds him of them, etc. he claims that even though he's not with them, he wants them to know that they're in his life.

wonwoo

gentle love is his core, there's no rush nor pressure with him. he values intimacy and discretion so, fleeting glances in a crowded room are his things. he could be immersed in his own conversation with his friends, and his lover in their own conversation as well but, he'll make sure to catch their gaze from time to time. it's a silent reminder that he's there, that someone in this room loves them, and see them.

woozi

he's a songwriter, woozi likes to express his love to his lover through sticky notes. it can go from full poems to a simple sentence. from reminding them to eat to expressing his undying love for them and his pov of their future together. he likes to hide them in sneaky places, so sometimes his lover finds notes that he wrote weeks ago but only found them now.

seokmin

a little bit like joshua, seokmin cares a lot about others well being. his specialty is knowing exactly what his lover needs when they're not doing okay. he knows how to make the difference between having to comfort them or distract them with a laugh. he keeps an eye on them at all times, it's not overbearing, it's just a keen eye that's there if help is needed. the type of person to take his lover aside if they're uncomfortable and take the time to understand what's going on, and to act according to it.

mingyu

he's big on words of affirmation. seeks a lot of compliments and reassurance that he's doing a good job at being a lover. a little like minghao, he feels secure in a relationship where communication is the main ingredient. wether it's a simple thank you when he makes the food or heartfelt sweet words under the sheets at night, mingyu craves oral validation. he won't be scared to give compliments and guidance to his lover either. while minghao prefers honesty though, mingyu likes to make it a little sweeter, wanting to avoid any possible conflicts.

minghao

thinks communication is key and the most important thing to keep a relationship afloat, whether it's love, family or friendship. early in the start of a love story, he'll straight up talk to his significant other about this. how he wants them to be honest and open with them, that he'll do the same because they need to respect each other. he'd prefer honesty over sugar coated truth. the type to ask whenever his lover rants to him: 'do you want comfort or real advices?'

seungkwan

seungkwan is known to be emotional, with his significant other, it's the same. his lover is basically his best friend. in order to fall in love, seungkwan needs a strong bond with that person before considering anything. they both have to pass that phase where it's just a facade. when seungkwan reveals his true self, that's when the real deal starts. seungkwan likes to think about love as something that allows to share freely, to speak about anything, serious or not without a care in the world.

vernon

a best friend before a lover. a little like seungkwan, he seeks human intimacy before actual love. he's chill and rather nonchalant, but it doesn't mean he lacks emotional intelligence. vernon doesn't look for much, all he wants is respect, honesty, loyalty so basically what makes a human decent. his thing is having each other's back. wether his lover is in the right or wrong, he'll always back them up, and he'd like it if the favour was returned. being a couple to him, is like being teammates.

dino

chan is the type of lover that wants to be his significant other's first in a lot of things. whether it's going to a restaurant they never tried or an activity they never thought of doing, he takes pride in knowing that when his lover will recall this memory, chan will be in it. if his lover has never fallen in love with anyone before, it would mean a lot to him, being someone's first love is something he deems extremely precious.

main masterlist

[faewrenbird]

Homicipher Theory

Mr. Gap: The Homicidal Stalker

Disclaimer: This is all just my own interpretation and speculation. This is not negative or an attack on the character. I love Mr. Gap for being the worst of the worst. He’s sickening and awful and makes my skin crawl but in the best way that horror fiction can manage.

That said, Trigger Warnings: Mentions of stalking, sexual assault, serial killing, and cannibalism

Also

Homicipher spoilers/Mr Gap ending spoilers

-

If we go by my pre-established theory that the Ghost Apartments are a haunted grounds where an apartment building was built over the ruins of a hospital and collapsed subway, then we must assume that it’s haunted by ghosts from many different time periods. I believe that ghosts like Mr. Crawling and Mr. Hood are among the oldest, original haunts. Ghosts like Mr. Silvair and the nurse are from the hospital time period. Some ghosts are from the subway collapse. And some, like Mr. Gap and the Bride, are more recent, from when the apartment building still had occupants before its abandonment.

Mr. Gap is a rather unique entity among the ghosts. He’s the only one who can be anywhere at any time, can easily shift between the real world and the spirit realm, and clearly understands that he is a ghost.

But why? What makes him special?

I fear that the answer may be an unsavory one...

Mr. Gap

Mr. Gap is the second entity we can meet once we wake up with control of ourselves in the Ghost Apartments. Moments before we meet him, Mr. Hood gives us a warning. He tells us to be careful, there are dangerous entities out there.

Ignoring his advice entirely, we interact with Mr. Gap. And since we don’t know the language yet, we’re very likely to smile at him, resulting in our first swift death of the game via getting our heart ripped out and eaten.

The best thing we can do in early game is to ignore him. When he asks for a body part, step away. Later on, we can interact with him more directly, but initially, survival means not flashing him our pearly whites.

It becomes obvious early on why he’s called Mr. Gap. It’s because he…well, he only exists in gaps. He’s not a roaming ghost, he appears to be bound by the walls of this ever-changing building. But wherever there’s a hole in the wall, there’s Mr. Gap, peering out from between strands of greasy hair with one eye.

Every time we interact with him, he requests a body part from us. Heart, arm, leg, head…and he means this literally. If we consent (or even just smile at him) he’ll devour whatever body part he asked for.

But he can be helpful. While being chased by Mr. Hugeface, we can desperately ask him to get us out of there and force ourselves into a vent with him. He agrees to take us to safety, though not out of the kindness of his heart. He always wants something in return. Fortunately for us, he settles for just some of our hair this time.

There is never a time when he’s not trying to weasel something out of us. Even in his own endings, he bargains and pleads for our heart.

Now, you can easily interpret this to simply mean that he’s some sort of mischievous spirit. Evil in the eyes of humans, but more of a representation of chaotic neutral yokai. Certainly, some of the entities in the Ghost Apartments bear loose similarities to yokai. And the tropes of bargaining and trickery go hand in hand with these sorts of myths.

Personally, I lean away from that reading because the game actually doesn’t seem to use very much in the way of Japanese yokai myths. I dug deep trying to drawn comparisons for each of the ghosts, but they were loose at best. There seems much more evidence that the ghosts are, as the name implies, actual ghosts of humans who died here, rather than spiritual entities.

And if that’s the case, it begs the question: Who was Mr. Gap? How did he die? Why does he haunt rather than move on into the afterlife?

I feel that the imagery of his character makes the answers obvious. The game takes place in an apartment building where Mr. Gap lives in the walls. I think that’s a direct reference to his life before death.

I theorize that when the apartment was inhabited, Mr. Gap was a man who crept through crawlspaces and inside of walls in order to spy on women. I believe it can be interpreted that he also lured, abused, and killed those women.

“Mighty hefty accusations, Wren. Where’s your proof?”

No proof, only evidence from my own interpretation to support the claims! I'm sure there are plenty of other ways to interpret his character, this is just mine!

Exhibit A - Living in the walls. Again, this seems the most obvious and on-the-nose point. He quite literally lives in the walls and is bound to spaces with gaps. But he also has an apparently innate ability to navigate the ghost apartments no matter how much it shift and changes. This could allude to how he had the internal structure of the apartment building perfectly mapped when he was alive.

More importantly, he only makes himself seen through holes in the walls and gaps like vents. And we know he’s watching us at all times from those very gaps. This is a direct reference to him being a peeping Tom. Even the other ghosts seem to recognize this, as we can get a humorous scene of Mr. Silvair taping up a hole in the wall so that Mr. Gap can’t look inside.

Exhibit B - Self Awareness. This is the most fascinating aspect of Mr. Gap, in my opinion. Most of the ghosts we meet seem fragmented or confused. If they know what they are, or were, they don’t show it. They seem to understand that there’s an “other” place, but not really the distinction between life and death.

Mr. Gap, however, outright knows and brags about being a ghost. At one point, he shows us old newspaper clippings with a photo of three women with censored faces standing in front of the apartment building, with Mr. Gap in a window behind them.

He can, and does, travel between realms. I assume this is possible because he’s bound to spaces within the apartment, but not specifically spaces in the spirit realm. The apartment is his cage, not the spirit realm itself. Because of this, he’s perfectly capable of peering out at modern day strangers walking by on the street and in the alleys. Also perfectly capable of haunting the old building and keeping its property value at a hearty zero.

But what does self awareness have to do with him being a criminal stalker and killer? Well, I think that he’s afforded these sort of rule-breaking abilities for one main reason, which brings me to…

Exhibit C - He’s a psychopath. No, I’m not using the term colloquially. I mean that truly, by definition, Mr. Gap is a psychopath. To be more accurate, by today’s definitions in the DSM-5, he would have Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD), characterized by a lack of empathy, disregard for others, and deceitfulness (*ASPD is more complex than this, please do not take this as a statement on the disorder which is characterized by much more than these three things).

If this seems like a stretch, I invite you to look at the three endings you can get at a particular point in the game, all involving Mr. Gap.

In this unfortunate decision path, we manage to escape the Ghost Apartments. However, by this points we’re too far gone to be able to live among normal society. Not only has our memory been warped by the ghost realm, but our body is unrecognizable and grotesquely inhuman. We know this based on the reaction of the first person we ask for directions. He panics at the sight of us and flees. We are, for all intents and purposes, the rotting Michael Afton parading about as a normal human while looking like a decaying zombie.

At this point there’s only one person left who can help us. Mr. Gap. Since he’s the only one who can cross between worlds. But even at our darkest and most vulnerable moment, is he going to help out of the kindness of his heart? No, of course not! In fact, he takes it as the perfect opportunity to ask for our heart again, the same way he did the very first time we spoke to him.

We have three options. 1, give him our heart. As expected, the ending is the same as the beginning. He kills us and eats our heart. 2, refuse to give him our heart. He’s disappointed, but leaves us alone. We wander down the alley but don’t get far before we pass out. And then…Mr. Gap takes our unconscious body and, wouldn’t you know it, eats us anyway.

In the third option, we give him someone else’s heart. We kill a random person and deliver their heart to Mr. Gap instead. He’s not exactly pleased but he did make a deal to bring us back, so he reluctantly drags us back into the apartment.

Sadly, while Mr. Gap is able to cross realms at will, he can’t bring us across. Instead, it seems he just brings us inside of the abandoned apartment. We don’t fully understand this though, which seems deceptive on his part. Sure, yes, he brought us back as promised. But not to where we wanted to be.

Now, it’s just us and Mr. Gap. Of course, he keeps begging for body parts. Except now, we have the chance to ask him why. The question…confuses him, even seems to irritate him. “Why?” What reason does there need to be besides that it’s fun?

Honestly, this interaction was bone-chilling to me. By no stretch of the imagination does Mr. Gap view us as anything more than a shiny toy (that was how I felt about it here at least).

I believe it’s this callousness that acts as his superpower. Unlike the other ghosts, he doesn’t have any emotional attachments preventing him from moving on to the afterlife. There’s no particularly strong thing keeping him here. He’s not repenting (Mr. Hood), he’s not in a cycle of suffering (Ms. Blue-Clad/Mr. Chopped), he’s not obsessively invested in his life’s purpose (Mr. Silvair). He’s just. Having fun.

I think this is a carry-over from when he was alive. He had no particular reason for stalking and killing beyond the fact that it was fun for him.

Because of this, he’s not trapped in the same way as the other ghosts. He’s actually quite content to cross between realms and peep at women who wander by. And if he’s real lucky, someone will get close enough to snatch.

Exhibit D - The Newspaper Clippings. What’s so special about them apart from the clear fact that he’s bragging about being a ghost? Well…I don’t think that’s all that he was bragging about. This old clipping includes a picture of three women with censored faces standing in front of the apartment. Victims, perhaps? It’s quite common for serial killers to keep trophies or memorabilia of their kills. Taking newspaper clippings reporting on the crime is actually a big one.

Exhibit E - Cannibalism. Now this, I believe, could be either literal or metaphorical, or a combination of both. When he was prowling and murdering women, did he actually eat them as well? Maybe. Or maybe the afterlife cannibalism is metaphorical, depicting him as a predator, with us as prey. The symbolism of flesh eating is violating, as well, and his biggest interest is in eating our heart. This could line up with a common delusion among stalkers, in which they believe the object of their delusions is in love with them.

Exhibit F - Sexual Assault. You may think this is a stretch and it’s bad enough that he could have been a serial killer and I’d agree with you. But I really think there’s enough here to at least suggest that he included sexual assault in his modus operandi. For one thing, he was a peeping tom, unquestionably. That’s the whole point of the holes and gaps that he peeks out of. This suggests sexual motivation for his actions. Then, there’s the possible symbolism of cannibalism meaning that he’s a predator. And, as also stated, when he brags about being spotted as a ghost, it’s on a newspaper clipping with only women, which lends credence to the idea that he stalked and spied on them specifically.

And lastly, the biggest evidence I have towards this point is in the Return Ending. At the very end, he makes his finally appearance under our sheets. This imagery feels intentional and deliberate. We lift the sheets and see him essentially between our legs. We dismiss him as being a prankster, and this ending concludes with him suddenly lunging from under the blankets with a wicked grin and hands outstretched to presumably harm us.

And that’s it. Fade to black.

To me, this reads obviously as a reference to assault. The stalker is in our bed, between our legs, and leaps to violently harm us.

We know that Mr. Gap doesn’t have a body, only arms and a face. So, this action appears to be simply a reflection of the actions he performed when he was alive. OR there’s also the possibility that he lied to us, and he does, in fact, have a body. I wouldn’t put it past him.

-

So, is it possible that Mr. Gap really is a reflection of some of the worst parts of humanity? Maybe. Or maybe he does love us, or he is just a mischievous yokai. I like the thought that he's a monster who gets away with it because everyone views him as an irritation rather than a real threat. Even if I'm way off base, he's still a totally fascinating character due to his uniqueness among the other present entities.

Honestly, serial killer or not, who would say no to a face like this?

[orchidbreezefc]

a guide on effective spoiler bar use!

so, i have a PTSD trigger. seeing it gives me panic attacks, so i ask people who share my space to warn for and spoiler discussion of that topic. and i really appreciate it when they do! however, even when people are kind enough to agree, a lot of them don't know how to do that properly, and their ineffectual use of spoiler bars leads to me having that panic attack anyway.

it's difficult and vulnerable for me to ask in the first place; i'm sharing something painful and personal, and i feel like i'm ruining people's fun by forcing them to censor themselves. at the same time, when people do what i ask, that means they want me to be safe! so neither of us wants to have a followup conversation where i say "actually, your efforts weren't good enough and i got hurt anyway."

so here's a post about how to get it right the first time! discord is the platform i use most, but the general principles apply everywhere. tumblr has no spoiler function, but that's okay because the number one thing to consider when spoilering is how it will look for someone who doesnt want to see what's under the bar.

the thing you want to spoiler could be someone's specific trigger, or a common phobia, or spoilers for the new episode of your show--anything someone in the group may not want to see for whatever reason. i'll use "dog" as a stand-in. here's a common spoiler practice that really isn't helpful:

"today i saw this super cute ■■■ in the park! his owner let me pet him and he licked all over my hands, it was great!"

if you're someone who doesn't want to see discussion of dogs, that spoiler is completely useless. you can guess what that person is talking about, meaning they haven't hidden dog talk from you. the length of the word being spoiled and the context of the sentence are enough to give it away--you need to disguise both.

ask yourself: if you're helping someone who doesn't want to hear about dogs, why are you showing them any part of your dog escapade? will they benefit from being able to see the rest, or does it just risk triggering them and giving them FOMO by teasing a message they can't fully read?

another unhelpful practice:

"[spoiler bar that covers the full message]"

in this case, the stuff under the spoiler bar would be dog talk. the thing is, if i see this message, i have no way of knowing if it's censored for talk of dogs, or of someone else's kitten trigger, or of a common phobia of glitter. maybe i love kittens and glitter and want to see posts about those things! but you haven't specified, so now this message is a game of russian roulette with kittens in some barrels and panic attacks in others.

if i have to see the triggering content to know it's going to trigger me, that's not a warning; that's just triggering with an extra step. don't place information on how to avoid being upset next to the upsetting thing.

here's a GOOD way to spoiler things:

"(dog talk) [spoiler bar covering the rest of the message]"

perfect! i now know exactly what i'll see if i click that spoiler bar. if i don't want to see it, i don't click! if you say this for one message, the reader can assume subsequent messages are spoilered for the same reason. you can finish with "(end dog talk)" if you want to be extra helpful!

admittedly for some people the very mention of a trigger will be enough to prompt a reaction, but that can't be helped. a list of trigger warnings can itself be triggering, but it's better than no warning at all. this is the best you can do for someone short of not bringing it into that space at all, which is a discussion you'd have to have with that group.

hope this helps! remember to prioritize the effect on the person you're doing this for. the difference between seeing and not seeing a certain thing can change someone's whole day or week.

[cartoonhorses]

Beauty & Bitterness

OOC! Jimmy Zare x female! Reader

warnings/triggers : Takes place on Earth, arguing between Jimmy and reader, slightly ooc Jimmy.

word count : 1k+

authors note : This is my first-ever fic, so i’d love to hear any suggestions or feedback for improvement.

Also, I did not read over this afterwards 💔 There will definitely be grammar mistakes

MDNI

Jimmy had always been rough around the edges. The kind of guy most people would pass by without a second glance. He was just, odd. His hair stayed messy, his jawline was scruffy, and his old and tattered clothes reflected a life that didn’t concern itself with appearances. It was safe to say that most people kept their distance from him. But not you. You saw something in him that nobody else did.

You were the complete opposite of Jimmy, everything that he wasn’t. You were put together, well-groomed, and polished. When you entered a room, heads turned without fail. You had this effortless beauty, you were noticeable and just all around dazzling.

So, when people found out the two of you were dating, they were totally flabbergasted! You, a radiant, captivating young woman, with an older disheveled man? It was the kind of pairing that caused whispers.

Jimmy knows you're way out of his league when you two begin dating. Initially, It didn't bother him. In fact, he felt like he won the lottery. However, when you guys started going out in public together more frequently, he noted how people stared, how they whispered. That's when it became harder to shrug off.

Jimmy had always prided himself on being tough. He’d grown up in a world that taught him to keep whatever emotions he had buried. But being with you, it felt impossible. You brought peace into his messy world, and he found himself craving your warmth like a man who’d been living in the cold his whole life.

But now, sitting at the bar, listening to those men practically tear him apart, Jimmy felt that familiar knot of anger in his chest tighten. “I mean, just look at him. Did he even try to make himself look presentable?” Jimmy’s grip around the cold glass of liquor tightened, his knuckles turning white. He knew they were talking about him, the disdain in their voices was familiar to him.

But Jimmy took a deep breath, he told himself to ignore it, to let it go. After all, he’d heard worse before. But then they spoke up again, "His girlfriend it gorgeous too. But it makes me wonder, why him? I mean, seriously… what is she even doing with a guy like that?” Jimmy felt his blood begin to boil, they were talking about him like you deserved better, like he wasn’t enough for you. And God did that piss him off.

You were well aware that Jimmy never handled insults well. His anger would simmer in his chest, slowly building until it boiled over like a pot left too long on the stove. But instead of lashing out at those who had pushed him to that edge, he tended to turn that anger and fury onto you.

Later in the night, as Jimmy drove you home, both of his hands sat on the steering wheel, the weight of the evening’s events (which you still had no clue about) hung heavily between you two. The car ride was silent for the most part, punctuated by your attempts to explain how great of a night you had. Jimmy only hummed in response, an unspoken frustration radiated from him.

Finally, as he pulled into the driveway of your home, he turned to look at you. “You didn’t notice how everyone was looking at us tonight, did you?” He asked, his voice was deep, cutting through the silence like a razor. It caught you off guard. The small smile that lingered on your lips slowly faltered, confusion written over your face.

You blinked, “what are you talking about?” Your tone came out soft, a stark contrast from his.

Jimmy let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. “Don’t play dumb, okay? You know exactly what I’m talking about. Those guys at the bar. They were laughing at me—at us. They think I’m some kind of fucking charity case. That you’re just slumming it with me for fun.”

Your heart sank as his words hit you. “Jimmy… I don’t know what you’re talking about… But, I don’t care what they think,” You said softly. “You know I like you, so why does it matter to you about what they think?” You reached out to place your hand on top of his, but he pulled away like a scared animal.

“Yeah, well, maybe you don’t care, but I do!” he snapped, his voice was rising. “Do you have any idea what’s like to stand next to someone like you? To be with someone like you? Someone who’s got it all together, who everyone wants to be around. And you wanna know what everyone’s thinking, ‘What’s she doing with him?’”

Your mouth parted slightly? Having the urge to speak but not finding the words. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I chose you, Jimmy,” You attempted to say firmly. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks because I see you! I see the man who comforts me when I cry, the man who—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have.” He interrupted, his voice breaking. “Maybe you shouldn’t have chosen me.” His shoulders began to sag, anger slowly draining out of him and leaving behind exhaustion. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not good enough for you.”

Your chest tightened at the sight of your boyfriend being so vulnerable around you, it was definitely a sight you weren’t familiar with. You leaned over from your side of the car, cupping his scruffy face in your hands. “Jimmy, listen to me. You’re what I want. Since the moment I laid eyes on you, I wanted you. And I don’t care what those idiots at the bar think! They don’t know you like I do.”

For a moment, he just sat there, his dark eyes searching yours as if trying to find some truth in your words. Slowly, his hands came up to rest on yours, his grip was tentative but steady. “I’m scared…” He admitted quietly. “Scared that one day you’ll realize they’re right and… and you’ll leave.”

You weren’t used to Jimmy showing this much emotion, hell, he wasn’t even used to it! It made the years that pricked in the corners of your eyes finally spill down your cheeks as you pressed your forehead against his. “I’m not going anywhere, Jimmy,” you whispered. “I love you, and everything about you. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jimmy let himself believe you.

[blankwashed]

Backstory: After years away, Caleb finally returns to Linkon, ready to pick up where he left off. He’s been gone long enough to chase his career, but the draw of the old town—and you—was never far from his mind. Tonight, he walks into the familiar bar, hoping to make up for lost time. The years apart haven’t dimmed his feelings for you; if anything, they’ve only intensified. During this one night to catch up, Caleb’s determined to see if the spark is still there, he wondered if you felt the same way about him as he did about you.

Triggers: Explicit sexual content (Sex in the club’s toilet), Slightly alcoholic substances (It’s a club), death of Caleb and Hunter’s grandma mentioned

It’s been years—no, let alone decades—since you’ve seen your childhood friend, Caleb. The memory of him was burnt into your mind: sharp eyes that always seemed to see too much, that cocky smirk that got him out of trouble just as often as it got him in it. Back then, he was trouble you didn’t dare to approach. And now? Trouble is exactly what he looks like as he leans against the far wall of the bar, one boot propped up, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers.

You froze in the doorway, your pulse skipping like a damn schoolkid’s, though you’d never admit it. He’s different now—broader shoulders, a shadow of stubble darkening his sharp jaw, and a dangerous air that screams don’t touch. But those eyes? Those same intense, soul-pinning eyes? They lock on to you the second you step inside.

He doesn’t smile, not right away. No, his lips pull into something slower, darker—a smirk that tells you he knows exactly how your stomach is twisting. And as if the years apart mean nothing, he tips his glass in your direction, daring you to come closer.

You don’t, not immediately, of course. You head to the bar instead, ignoring the heat of his gaze crawling over your back. You can feel him watching, though, as you order a drink.

“Bartender! One scotch on the rocks. Put it on this tab,” you said as you slipped a hundred dollar bill on the bar. Caleb doesn’t know that you drink now, hell, the last time he met you, it was practically against the law to go to such a place! But to find you in a place like this now…he’s got a few questions for you to answer.

As the bartender gave you the drink you ordered, he mentioned that you didn’t need to pay for it as a ‘kind gentleman’ already paid for your tab. Slightly confused, you had to guess it was Caleb. The scotch made your skin tingle and your fingers to tighten around the glass when you finally took a sip.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” came his voice, low and rough as he stepped up beside you. His presence was way too familiar but towering and close, and his scent, leather and smoke, it flooded your senses.

“I could say the same thing,” you replied coolly, keeping your focus on your drink, even though your pulse is hammering. “Didn’t think you’d still be alive.”

He chuckled, the sound low and delicious. “Oh, I’m full of surprises, sweet pea. You, though…” He leans in, his breath brushing your ear. “You’re exactly the same. Still trying to act like I don’t get under your skin.”

You stiffenned, your glass clinking against the counter as you set it down a little too hard. “And you’re still an arrogant prick huh?” you snap, spinning to face him. But damn it, he’s closer than you expected, those lips just inches from yours, his eyes burning with something dangerous.

“And yet,” he murmurred, stepping into your space, his hand brushing your waist, “here you are, letting me get close. Then I’m guessing…still single?”

Your breath catches, your body betraying you with the way it leans into him despite your better judgment. He notices, of course he notices, and that damn smirk deepens.

“You missed me,” he whispered, his voice a rough caress, his hand sliding to your hip, squeezing just enough to send sparks up your spine.

“To hell with that,” you shot back, but your voice trembles, and the way his eyes darken tells you he heard it.

“Liar,” he growled, and then his lips crashed onto yours—hot, demanding, a kiss that steals your breath and leaves no room for doubt. His hands were on you, possessive and firm, pulling you against his body like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.

The kiss breaks, and he stared down at you, his thumb brushing your cheek as his voice drops to a rasp. “You can tell yourself you hate me all you want, sweetheart. But your body? It doesn’t lie.”

And when you grabbed his shirt and dragged him back to you, your lips crashed onto his this time, you knew he’s right. He knew he was right.

You never forgot about him.

“Why did Grandma have to die and not you instead?”

The words hang in the air like a gunshot, sharp and final. You hadn’t meant to say it, at least not out loud. But the second they leave your lips, the silence between you feels suffocating.

Caleb stiffens, his jaw clenching so tight you can see the muscle tick. His usual bravado, that cocky shield he always hides behind, is gone in an instant. All that’s left is the raw, wounded man beneath.

He takes a step back, his eyes narrowing, but there’s a flash of something else—pain, maybe? Regret? It’s gone as fast as it came, replaced by that cold, hardened look you’ve seen him wear a hundred times before.

“Is that what you really think of me?” His voice is low, deadly calm, but there’s an edge to it, sharp enough to cut.

You don’t answer, your chest heaving with a mix of anger and guilt. You should apologize, take it back—but part of you doesn’t want to. Part of you wants to hurt him the way he’s hurt you, the way his absence, his choices, have haunted you for years.

“Go on, say it again,” Caleb growls, stepping closer this time, your body basically hitting the back of the bar’s walls. “Say it so I know exactly how much you hate me.”

Your lips part, but the words stick in your throat. The anger is still there, burning bright but the way he’s looking at you - his eyes dark and raw, his body towering over yours..it’s throwing you off balance. You hate him, and yet…you can’t ignore tha way your body reacts to the heat rolling off him.

“Maybe I will,” you snapped, lifting your chin, refusing to back down. “Maybe you deserve to hear it. Maybe you deserve to die under all that rubble from our house instead of grandma. She’s innocent, but you? You killed, you murdered, you..”

He’s closer to you now, so close till you can feel the tension vibrating off him. He isn’t afraid of you, even after hearing the heartless things you said from your mouth. “You don’t mean that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t? How’d you know, huh?” you challenged, your voice shaking just enough to betray the turmoil inside you. Mainly, the scotch playing with your voice.

For a moment, it’s like he’s about to walk away. You know how much he treasured grandma, so talking about something like that hit heavy for him. He never wanted her to perish but…

“Then hate me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Hate me all you want. But don’t fucking pretend you don’t feel this.”

Your heart pounded, your head was already intoxicated and pounding from the questions your mind was playing on itself. “I hate you,” you whispered, but the way your fingers traced the line of his jaw told him a different story.

“Liar,” he growls but before you can respond his mouth was on yours again, stealing every thought, every ounce of self control. His hands roamed your body, claiming every inch as if he’s trying to prove something, as if he’s trying to remind you of everything you’ve been trying to forget.

Him.

You gasped as his teeth grazed the curve of you neck, his unshaved stubble tough against your skin in a way that has your thighs squeezing around his hips. Caleb’s hands were everywhere—pulling, grabbing, demanding— as though he’s afraid if he stopped touching you for even a second, you’ll disappear.

“Gods, you drive me fucking crazy,” he growled against your collarbone, his voice rough and filled with something raw. His hands slip under your shirt, calloused fingers brushing against the bare skin of your pushed-up cleavage.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in hard enough to leave marks ans the low rumble from his chest tells you he likes it. He loved it hard. “Good,” you spat back at him, yanking at the collar of his shirt. “Maybe now you know what it feels like.”

He pulls you to a secluded toilet stall that has a singular light bulb hanging from the ceiling. “You think you’re the only one?” he snaps, his hands tightening on your waist, dragging your hips against his. “You’ve been under my skin since the day we met, sweetheart. You fucking own me, and you don’t even realise it.”

His confession only confirmed his feelings for you, but you didn’t get a chance to respond. His lips were on yours again, his kiss was brutal and angry with its intensity. He ngaws at your bottom lip and when you almost let out a yelp, his tongue slides into your mouth. Always trying to take control like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

Your back hits the counter of the toilet. “We..we’re doing it here? In this disgusting shit hole?” you said, as you swore you saw someone go there to vomit almost 5 minutes ago.

“Do you have a better suggestion, angel?” he said a matter of factly. Caleb tugs your shirt over your head in one sharp motion (it was just a strapless top anyways).

“You make me a fucking menace, did you know that?” he growled. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

You barely managed to get out a breathless, “Maybe,” before his mouth was back on yours, his kiss so hungry it steals the air from your lungs. His tongue tangles with yours, and you moan into his mouth as his hand slides down the tight mini-skirt you wore.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips when his fingers lapped up how wet you were. “You’re soaked already? Guess you don’t hate me as much as much as you said, huh?”

“Shut up,” you snapped, but the way your body arches into his touches, you were completely lying at this point.

He smirks. That cocky bastard, and his fingers slipped right into your folds, teasing you with just enough pressure to make your legs tremble. “Say it,” he demands, his voice low and commanding. “Say you want me, sweetpea.”

Your pride was high and wanted you to hold your ground. “I hate this, I hate that childhood name that you keep calling me. I’m an adult now, don’t you see?” you tried to say with gusto while trying to glare into his eyes but instead the breathy moan that escaped when he slides one finger inside of you made it clear how much of a lie that was.

“Liar…” he growls, his thumb circling around your clit, pinching in the areas where he knew would drive any woman mad. “You hate me, hm? But you’re dripping for me? Tell me again, sweetheart. Tell me how much you hate this as much as you hate me.”

Your head falls back against the door, your hips rocking with his hand as heat floods through your veins. “You’re such an asshole, always has been..always will be.”you managed to quiver as your nails drugged into his shoulders as you tried to ground yourself against the intensity of the orgasm he gave you.

“And you fucking love it,” he shot back as he adds another finger, stretching you. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the way you looked at me. The way you bite your lip every time I get too close.”

You wanted to argue as you always do but the pleasure building inside of you steals the words from your lips. Instead, a strangled moan escapes as his fingers curl. hitting that spot that makes your vision blur.

“Say my name,” he demands, his voice way more rough that you remembered it to be. “Say it.”

“C-Caleb,” you gasp, wanting to find the same pleasure that he was giving to you.

Caleb of course, a man of his own word, lifted you up in one smooth motion and carried you to the sink. In one smooth motion, his shirt is on the nasty bar’s floor. He flexed and the hard lines of his body were showing that he had all power and control now.

“You want more, my sweet?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave as he looms over you with eyes dark with lust.

“Don’t make me beg. You know I never do,” you managed to say despite your voice sounding breathless.

His smirk returns, that annoying cocky grin that would make you punch bricks but fall in love with him. “Oh you’ll beg, sweetheart,” he promises, his hands parting your thighs apart as he lowers himself between them. “But don’t worry—I’ll make it worth your wait.”

Caleb’s lips are in between your thighs, giving kisses in areas where no one has been before. He was teasing, again. Memorising every inch, every curve, every scar…it was just agonising. The way his tongue moved had your body arching into him. your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper as your breath came in gasps.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with hunger. At that point, the both of you forgot you were in public. He’s between your legs again, skirt chucked up in some other random place, his main goal to give you sensations that sent you overdrive. The heat was building, swirling, coiling tighter and tighter as he works his long fingers and tongue in you with relentless precision.

“Caleb, please,” you begged, your voice trembling. “Please, I need this—“

He was not letting your finish, not when he’s this close to breaking you. His fingers slide inside your again, curling deep and his other hand grips your thigh stabilising your half drunk body as you spread wide for him.

“Need what, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice silky and dangerous, his lips brushing your inner thigh as he speaks. “Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

“You,” you moan, your body trembling under his trouch, his name slipping from your lips. “You, Caleb, please I need you.”

His smirk widen as he pulls aways just enough to hover over you. you could see his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. He looks down at you with the same intensity and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something more in his eyes—love? No, it was something deeper. This was him fulfilling his dream, his desire.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name,” he growls as he positions himself at your entrance.

Before pushing in he rubbed his very hard cock along your soaked pussy, making you wonder whether he was teasing you again. But once he slowly filled you in with one smooth stroke, the pain made you realise why. Caleb thrusted deeper and you gasped when he bottomed out making you stay still and silent. He wanted to move but he was waiting for your answer.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice way quieter now. He wants to move but he was waiting for your answer.

You nod, your hips already starting to rock against him, craving more but the burn of his length was ripping your insides apart. Everything you’ve ever wanted.

“More,” you moaned, “please, Caleb. Don’t stop.”

With that, he moves, his hips snapping forward to meet yours in forceful motions. HIs rhythm is relentless—hard and fast—pounding into you as his name falls from your lips over and over. It was consummating for you, finally, after all these years of loving him for a far.

His hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as he fucks you harder, faster, his voice rough while he speaks.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice low. “Say you need me.”

“I need you,” you cried out, the words spilling from your lips as the pleasure inside you becomes unbearable. “I fucking need you, Caleb!”

And with that, he fucks you harder, faster, as if the world was exploding behind him but it didn’t matter because he was having the best time of his life. Your body shakes by the own force of your orgasm and Caleb follows close behind, his own cum spilling into you with a rough groan.

Both of you are breathless, your bodies tangled together on the sink. Both of your breathing normalises while staring into each other’s eyes.

“You still hate me?” he softly asked as he stares into your eyes. His lips smirking, but in a gentle way.

“Very much.” you replied, your voice still a little shaky but the both of you knew it was your biggest lie.

[wadewnstonwilson]

do you want to play a game?

summary: Wade Wilson (Deadpool) finds himself strapped to a sadistic torture chair in a room filled with gruesome contraptions, yet he remains gleefully sarcastic, much to the frustration of Jigsaw's ominous puppet.

word count: 1.6k

trigger warnings: violence, gore, torture, body horror

authors note: this was a headcanon idea someone posted a while back and asked to have a fic written about it, if it was you please let me know so I can properly tag you!

The room was dimly lit, a mixture of cold steel and rusted iron making up its gruesome decor. Wade Wilson, the infamous Deadpool, sat in the center of the room strapped to a chair, surrounded by a series of sadistic contraptions clearly meant to inspire terror. For most people, this would be the worst day of their lives. But Wade? Wade was thrilled.

“Well, hello, Mr. Saw!” Wade chirped with all the enthusiasm of a kid meeting their favorite mascot at Disneyland. His voice echoed through the dimly lit, blood-streaked room, cutting through the oppressive silence like a hot knife through butter. Strapped securely to a steel chair, Wade looked more like a man sitting in for a casual dental cleaning than someone caught in the clutches of a notorious serial killer.

The room smelled of rust and mildew, the air thick with the metallic tang of dried blood. Around him were a variety of deadly contraptions: gears, blades, and wires all meticulously arranged in a manner that suggested their designer had spent a bit too much time watching home renovation shows. Wade wasn’t scared. If anything, he was curious.

He squinted at the giant monitor flickering to life before him. The screen revealed the infamous Jigsaw puppet, its soulless eyes staring back at him with what Wade could only interpret as disapproval. “Okay, seriously,” Wade continued, completely ignoring the ominous vibe, “do you get these machines wholesale, or are they custom jobs? Because I gotta tell ya, the craftsmanship here? Chef’s kiss.”

The puppet’s expression remained unchanged, its head tilting slightly as if processing Wade’s commentary.

“I mean,” Wade went on, craning his neck as much as his restraints would allow, “are those hand-welded joints? No, really, this is top-tier work. I’ve seen Avengers tech, and honestly? Kinda mid compared to this. Do you have a Pinterest board for inspiration? Or do you just wing it?”

The puppet’s voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and menacing. “I want to play a game.”

“Oh! Oh!” Wade exclaimed, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement. “Twister? Monopoly? No wait, let me guess—Candyland! I love Candyland. Can I be the gumdrop guy? No one ever lets me be the gumdrop guy.”

The puppet’s eye twitched. Or, at least, Wade imagined it did. “Your constant need for validation and unrelenting irreverence have landed you here. If you do not escape this trap in time, your body will be—”

“—ripped apart, blood everywhere, yadda yadda, we get it. You really need a new schtick, Jiggy. I mean, what’s next, making me choose between tacos and chimichangas? Ha! Joke’s on you—I don’t choose. Ever.”

A metallic whir sounded as the trap sprung into action. Sharp blades inched closer to Wade’s arms, clearly designed to slice them off unless he solved the contraption before him.

“Neat,” Wade muttered, leaning as far as the straps allowed to get a closer look. “Do these things come in red?”

------

Logan Howlett prowled through the shadow-choked labyrinth of the abandoned city district, his boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, rotting wood, and despair—an oppressive cocktail that clung to his heightened senses like oil on water. Neon lights flickered weakly from the occasional shattered sign, casting brief, eerie glows across graffitied walls and broken windows. This place had been dead for years, left to fester in its decay.

It was the kind of place Wade Wilson would love.

That thought made Logan’s scowl deepen, his jaw tightening as his claws slid out of his knuckles with a soft snikt. The silver blades glinted faintly in the dim light, their familiar weight offering a grim reassurance. Wade hadn’t answered a single one of Logan’s calls in days. Normally, that would’ve been a welcome reprieve—Logan wasn’t exactly the type to miss Wade’s incessant jokes or ceaseless chatter. But this time, something was off. Wade didn’t just not show up. The guy was like a damn cockroach, always turning up where you least expected him, unkillable and annoying as hell. For him to go silent? That meant trouble.

“Where the hell are ya, Wilson?” Logan growled under his breath, his gravelly voice swallowed by the shadows around him.

He came to a halt, sniffing the air. His hyper-sensitive nose twitched as he sifted through the various odors polluting the area—garbage, oil, rat droppings, the faint tang of rusted metal. And then he caught it, faint but distinct: the unmistakable scent of blood. Not just any blood. Wade’s.

Logan’s teeth clenched as he closed his eyes and inhaled again, isolating the scent. It was there, mixed with sweat and... something else. Fear? No. Wade didn’t do fear. It was exhaustion. Pain. The kind of pain that would kill a lesser man ten times over.

His claws slid back into his hands as he moved, quick and silent, through the maze of alleys. The scent grew stronger, more focused, leading him deeper into the heart of the district. He passed crumbling buildings with boarded-up windows, their skeletal remains groaning in protest against the night wind. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a rat scurrying across his path—but he ignored it. His focus was razor-sharp now, his instincts taking over as he tracked the trail.

The scent led him to a narrow alley that terminated in a massive steel door. It was dented and rusted, the kind of industrial barrier that screamed bad news. A faint smear of blood marked the handle, barely visible in the dim light, but Logan’s eyes caught it immediately. He placed a hand on the door, pausing for a moment to listen. His sharp hearing picked up the hum of machinery inside, accompanied by faint, muffled voices. Or maybe just one voice.

“Wilson,” Logan muttered, his voice a low rumble. His claws unsheathed again, a primal response to the growing anger roiling in his gut. He pushed the door, and it gave slightly under his strength, creaking open just enough to let him slip inside.

The interior was worse than he expected. It was a labyrinth of machinery and steel, a factory of nightmares brought to life. Gears turned noisily, chains rattled, and the faint smell of burnt metal stung his nose. The walls were lined with grotesque contraptions, each one a testament to the sadistic mind that had designed them. But Logan barely registered the horror of the place. His focus was on one thing—the idiot who’d managed to get himself into this mess.

Wade’s scent was stronger now, the blood fresher. Logan followed it through the maze of corridors, his movements a combination of raw instinct and calculated precision. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to strike. He rounded a corner, his sharp hearing picking up something new—laughter. Muffled, but undeniably familiar. It was Wade’s laugh, laced with exhaustion and a little bit of hysteria.

“Son of a—” Logan bit off the curse as he quickened his pace.

The sound of his boots on the grated floor echoed faintly, but he didn’t care about stealth anymore. He could feel the beast inside him clawing at the edges of his control, the primal part of him that wanted to tear through whatever or whoever had put Wade in this situation. The scent was nearly overwhelming now, and as he rounded another corner, the sight before him stopped him cold.

There was Wade, suspended in the middle of the room by a series of chains and straps. His suit was torn to shreds, revealing patches of raw, bloodied skin that glistened under the harsh, flickering lights. A grotesque contraption of blades and gears hovered dangerously close to his body, clearly designed to inflict as much pain as possible without delivering a killing blow. Not that Wade would die, of course. That was the point, wasn’t it? Keep him alive. Make him suffer.

And yet, despite the carnage, Wade’s maskless face split into a wide, bloody grin the moment he saw Logan.

“Logie-bear!” Wade called out, his voice hoarse but still infuriatingly cheerful. He waved weakly, his hand slick with blood. “You found me! Took you long enough, you big, hairy softie.”

Logan’s growl was low and guttural, his claws snapping out with a metallic snikt as his gaze swept over the room. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, the feral side of him threatening to take over. He took one step closer, his amber eyes locked on Wade.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Logan snarled.

“And you’re a goddamn knight in shining adamantium,” Wade shot back, coughing slightly but still managing to sound insufferable. “Now, how about you get me down from here before I lose more blood? Not that I’m complaining—I mean, it’s great for weight loss, but—”

“Shut up, Wilson,” Logan snapped, but his claws were already slicing through the chains holding Wade. He caught the mercenary as he fell, holding him awkwardly but securely.

“Aw, you do care,” Wade muttered, resting his head against Logan’s shoulder.

Logan didn’t respond. He was too busy glaring at the room, silently daring anything—or anyone—to try stopping them. The beast inside him wasn’t done yet, but for now, it could wait. First, he needed to get Wade out of here. Then, he’d deal with the bastard responsible for this.

“Let’s go,” Logan growled, carrying Wade toward the exit.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Wade murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion but still managing to be as annoying as ever.

Logan sighed. “I should’ve left you in the chair.”

[itstobias149]

An annulled vow

Hello guys! I bring you a lore drop for my oc Marie! I hope you guys enjoy, now this does get a little dark and talks about some touchy subjects!

If divorce, or relationship issues trigger you, this might not be the post for you! This post explores Marie’s arranged marriage and how it failed.

Marie’s divorce from Eli marked the lowest point in her life. She had just lost the last connection to the life her parents had arranged for her, leaving her feeling directionless and utterly alone. She was still grieving the loss of her family, her home, and the version of herself she thought she was supposed to be.

Not long after the annulment, she met Little Mac at the WVBA gym. He was scrappy, determined, and just as lost in his own way as she was. Something about his resilience resonated with her. Taking him in gave her a sense of purpose, a chance to rebuild her life by helping someone else build theirs.

Mac became like the brother she never had, and in caring for him, she began to find herself again.

The Arrangement

Marie’s parents, traditional and deeply rooted in their Jewish faith, sought to secure her future by arranging her marriage at a young age. The groom, Eli, was from a respected family within their community. Eli was a few years older than Marie, confident, and ambitious, which her parents believed would make him a capable provider and protector.

Marie, dutiful and eager to honor her parents’ wishes, accepted the arrangement despite having little say in the matter. At the time, she trusted their judgment and hoped love would eventually grow between her and Eli.

The Marriage in its Early Years

The marriage began quietly, with Marie and Eli navigating the awkwardness of being young and unfamiliar with one another.

• Marie’s Perspective: She felt out of place, struggling to connect with Eli emotionally. She wanted to fulfill her role as a wife but felt overwhelmed by the expectations placed on her.

• Eli’s Perspective: Eli saw himself as the leader in the relationship, expecting Marie to adapt quickly to his lifestyle and ideals. While he provided for her financially and adhered to traditional customs, he lacked the emotional sensitivity Marie needed.

Despite the differences, they found moments of companionship. Marie admired Eli’s determination, and Eli appreciated Marie’s kindness and efforts to make their household run smoothly. However, intimacy remained a major point of contention.

The Cultural and Emotional Conflict

Marie’s discomfort with intimacy stemmed from a mix of her own personality, upbringing, and the suddenness of being thrust into a marital relationship. Eli, raised to believe in traditional gender roles, interpreted her hesitation as a rejection of him and his authority.

• Arguments: They began having disagreements, with Eli accusing Marie of dishonoring him and failing her duties as a wife. Marie, though quiet and non-confrontational, felt hurt and confused by his harshness.

• Grief Complicates Matters: After her parents’ deaths, Marie was left reeling. Eli’s attempts at support often came off as dismissive or impatient, further alienating her.

Moving to the U.S.

After her parents’ passing, Eli insisted they move to the United States for better opportunities. Marie followed him, hoping the change in environment would help mend their marriage. However, it only deepened the cracks:

• Eli’s Focus: Once in the U.S., Eli became consumed with securing his citizenship and building a new life. He began to see Marie less as a partner and more as a means to an end.

• Marie’s Loneliness: Away from her home and heritage, Marie felt isolated. She struggled to find her place in this new country, especially as Eli became increasingly distant.

The Breaking Point

Once Eli obtained his citizenship, he viewed their marriage as more of a hindrance than a partnership. He believed Marie’s discomfort with intimacy was a failure to uphold her role as a Jewish woman and a wife.

• Annulment: Eli requested an annulment, claiming the marriage was never consummated and therefore invalid. While Marie felt betrayed, part of her also felt relieved to be free from the pressure and emotional strain.

• Eli’s New Life: Eli remarried soon after, choosing someone he believed fit his vision of a “proper” wife.

Impact on Marie

• Self-Worth: Marie struggled with feelings of inadequacy, wondering if she had truly failed in her role or if the marriage was doomed from the start.

• Independence: Over time, Marie found strength in rebuilding her life independently, carving out her identity apart from the expectations imposed on her.

• New Relationships: The experience left her cautious about romantic relationships, though it also gave her a deeper understanding of people’s flaws and complexities.

The Argument:

Eli:

(Frustrated tone)

“Marie, I don’t understand you. I have given you everything—brought you here, given you a new life—and yet, you act like it’s never enough!”

Marie:

(Calm but defensive)

“I didn’t ask to come here, Eli. I followed you because I thought it’s what I was supposed to do. But you don’t see me, not really. You only see what you want me to be.”

Eli:

“What am I supposed to see? A wife who avoids her husband? Who can’t even—” (he stops himself, shaking his head) “You won’t even try to make this marriage work!”

Marie:

(Her voice tightens, trying to stay composed)

“I have tried. I’ve tried to be patient, to make this work, but you keep pushing me into something I’m not ready for. Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving my home, losing my parents, and now… feeling like I’m failing you every day?”

Eli:

(Angrily gestures)

“Do you hear yourself? Always making excuses. You think you’re the only one who’s had to sacrifice? I left my family too! I worked day and night to get us here, and what do I get in return? Coldness? Silence? A wife who won’t even share a bed with me?”

Marie:

(Her voice rises for the first time)

“Do you think yelling will fix this? That forcing me will change how I feel? I’m trying to figure out who I am in all of this, Eli. I’ve lost everything. And you—you’re only focused on what I can’t give you.”

Eli:

(Pauses, his anger simmering down into bitterness)

“Maybe that’s the problem. You don’t even know what it means to be a wife. You dishonor me, Marie. You dishonor our traditions, our faith. Do you think this is what your parents would have wanted?”

Marie:

(She freezes, his words cutting deeply. When she speaks, her voice is quiet but firm)

“My parents wanted me to be happy. Do you think they’d be proud of how you’ve treated me? Of how you only see me as your duty or your possession?”

Eli:

(Scoffs, turning away)

“You twist everything. I’ve done nothing but try to make this work, but maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t belong here, or with me.”

Marie:

(Her voice breaks slightly, but she holds her ground)

“Maybe I don’t.”

Aftermath:

This argument could mark a turning point in their relationship. Eli’s words reflect his frustration and belief in traditional roles, while Marie’s responses reveal her growing awareness of her own needs and boundaries. Neither can truly understand the other, leading to the eventual collapse of their marriage.

Court House Moment

Marie and Eli sit almost side by side on a bench outside a New York City divorce court. The hallway is quiet except for the occasional sound of footsteps and the hum of muffled conversations. The tension between them is palpable, the air heavy with unspoken words.

Marie sits with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her posture stiff and defensive. Eli leans back against the bench, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his jaw set.

Eli:

(Breaking the silence, his voice low and tense)

“So, this is it.”

Marie:

(Doesn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the tiled floor)

“Yes. This is it.”

Eli:

(Scoffs slightly, shaking his head)

“I never thought it would end like this. Not here, in some… hallway, in a country that isn’t even ours.”

Marie:

(Finally looks at him, her voice measured but tired)

“I didn’t think it would end at all. But here we are.”

Eli:

(Turns to face her, his voice sharper now)

“Do you even care? Or is this what you wanted all along? To be free of me?”

Marie:

(Her expression hardens, though her voice remains calm)

“You think this is easy for me? That I wanted to throw away everything I’ve been through—everything we’ve been through—just to sit here and end it? I didn’t ask for this, Eli.”

Eli:

(Leaning forward, his tone bitter)

“No, you didn’t ask for it, but you made it impossible. You shut me out, Marie. You acted like I was the enemy, like I was some… burden.”

Marie:

(Her voice cracks slightly, but she keeps her composure)

“I shut you out because you never tried to understand me. You didn’t see how hard it was for me to leave everything behind—my home, my parents. I lost everything, Eli, and you… you just expected me to be okay.”

Eli:

(Softens for a moment, his voice quieter)

“I did try. Maybe not the way you wanted, but I tried. I wanted to give you a life here, to build something together. But you never let me in.”

Marie:

(Shaking her head, her voice laced with sorrow)

“Because you didn’t listen. Every time I told you how I felt, you made it about what I wasn’t doing for you. I couldn’t keep pretending I was fine when I wasn’t.”

Eli:

(Sits back, his shoulders slumping slightly)

“I thought we could fix it. That you’d come around eventually. But maybe… maybe we were just too different from the start.”

Marie:

(Glancing at him briefly, her voice soft but firm)

“Maybe we were.”

A Moment of Silence:

The quiet between them stretches out, not quite peaceful but no longer hostile. Both are lost in their own thoughts, the weight of their shared history hanging between them.

Eli:

(After a long pause, almost hesitant)

“Do you think your parents would have forgiven me? For how this turned out?”

Marie:

(Closes her eyes for a moment, her voice thoughtful and bittersweet)

“My parents believed in forgiveness. But they also believed in honesty. And the truth is, Eli, we both failed each other.”

Eli:

(Nods slowly, his gaze distant)

“Maybe we did.”

Marie:

(Standing up, smoothing her skirt as she prepares to walk into the courtroom)

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Eli. Truly.”

Eli:

(Looking up at her, a hint of regret in his eyes)

“You too, Marie.”

As they walk into the courtroom, side by side but worlds apart, both feel the weight of the finality. Though the pain of their marriage lingers, this moment marks the beginning of a new chapter for Marie, one where she can start to reclaim her identity and heal from the wounds of the past.

Marie’s Perspective:

Sitting across from a friend or perhaps a trusted confidant, Marie tries to explain her feelings, her hands trembling slightly as she speaks.

Marie:

(Quietly, staring down at her hands)

“I really did love him. Or… I tried to. I wanted to. But how do you love someone you barely know? I was so young when we got married—still a girl, really—and suddenly I was supposed to be a wife. To someone I’d only met a handful of times before our wedding.

“My parents arranged it, and I trusted them. I thought, ‘This is how it’s supposed to be. Love will come with time.’ And maybe it could have, if things had been different. But it all happened so fast.

“When we moved to America, I felt… untethered. I’d lost my parents, my home, everything I knew. And Eli… he didn’t understand. He thought bringing me here was enough, that I should be grateful. And I was, in some ways. But I was terrified. Terrified of this new country, of failing him, of failing myself.

“And then there was the intimacy. I—I wasn’t ready. He’d look at me like I was some puzzle he couldn’t figure out, like I was withholding something on purpose. But it wasn’t that. I was scared. Scared of him, of what it meant to really be his wife.

“I think part of me always hoped he’d slow down, that he’d take the time to really see me. To understand why I was struggling. But he didn’t. He just kept getting more frustrated, more distant.

“And now… now it’s over. I know he didn’t love me. Not really. I was just… convenient. A way for him to get here. And once he did, he didn’t need me anymore. But I loved him, even if it wasn’t enough. Even if it didn’t look the way he wanted it to. I did my best, but my best wasn’t what he wanted.”

(She pauses, wiping at her eyes before continuing, her voice steadier now.)

“I don’t hate him, though. I don’t think I ever could. But I hope… I hope he finds what he’s looking for. And I hope I do too.”

Eli’s Perspective:

Eli, now settled in a bar with a couple of friends, recounts his side of the story with a mix of bitterness and detachment, nursing a glass of whiskey as he speaks.

Eli:

(Leaning back in his chair, shrugging)

“Marie? Yeah, it didn’t work out. But honestly, it was never going to. She wasn’t cut out for this.

“Look, I did what I was supposed to do. I married her like my parents wanted, played the dutiful husband, brought her to America—America, the land of opportunity—and she just… what? Sat there, moping around, acting like I was some kind of monster for wanting a real marriage.

“She never really wanted to be with me. She made that pretty clear. Always an excuse, always something holding her back. She’d pull away every time I tried to get close, and I’m supposed to just… what? Wait around forever for her to figure it out? Nah. Life’s too short for that.

“Truth is, I was young and dumb too. I thought, ‘Hey, this’ll work out. She’ll settle down, we’ll make a life here.’ But she wasn’t interested in being my wife. Not the way I needed her to be.

“So, yeah, I ended it. Got the annulment, moved on. No hard feelings, but I’m not going to waste my time on someone who doesn’t even want me.

(He smirks, taking a sip of his drink.)

“Now? Now I’ve got options. I’m in America. I can find someone who gets it. Someone who knows how to make a man feel like a man. A real partner, you know? Or maybe a trophy wife. Whatever works.

(Laughing, he raises his glass in a mock toast.)

“Here’s to new beginnings.”

Marie’s failed marriage to Eli left deep scars that affect how she approaches relationships. The experience taught her to guard her heart fiercely, fearing vulnerability and the possibility of being seen as a burden or failure. She struggles with trust, believing that if she opens up, she’ll once again be discarded for not meeting someone else’s expectations.

Romantic Relationships:

Marie is hesitant to pursue romance, even when she feels a connection. Her fear of intimacy, shaped by Eli’s frustration and the pressure she felt to fulfill traditional roles, makes her wary of letting anyone get too close. She often second-guesses herself, wondering if she’s capable of being what someone else needs.

Even when she develops feelings for someone, she holds back. The idea that she might not be enough for someone terrifies her. Rather than risk rejection or heartbreak, she chooses to stay silent, convincing herself it’s better that way.

Friendships and Bonds:

Her past has made Marie deeply empathetic, especially toward people who are struggling. She gravitates toward those who are lost or broken, like Little Mac, because helping them gives her a sense of purpose and belonging. However, she often prioritizes others’ needs over her own, afraid of being seen as selfish or unworthy.

At the same time, Marie’s guarded nature can make it hard for her to fully open up to her friends. She keeps her pain and fears hidden, afraid of being judged or pitied.

Personal Growth:

Marie’s experiences have left her with lingering self-doubt, but they’ve also given her a quiet strength. She’s learning to set boundaries and recognize her own worth, though it’s a slow and ongoing process.

Her past marriage serves as a reminder of what she doesn’t want in a relationship—control, resentment, and unmet expectations. She longs for a partnership built on mutual respect, understanding, and acceptance, but she’s still learning how to believe she deserves it.

[maxdibert]

Don’t you think it’s stupid to always excuse Snape’s actions when Snape himself hates what he’s done and regrets it because he knows he was a bastard? His fans are always trying to make him seem like a victim, but he knows he wasn’t one!!!

No, because I don’t have to agree with the character.

What I mean is, Severus feels bad about the things he did, sees them as despicable, and understands them as things he needs to atone for. I understand where this comes from, I understand why he thinks that way, but as an external individual, I can have my own opinion about his actions and conclude that, from my perspective, they weren’t that big of a deal. I mean, I can understand that in the context of the story, being a Death Eater is seen as a terrible sin and that’s why the character embarks on a journey of redemption, but that doesn’t mean that, as someone outside that story, if I rationalize it and extrapolate it to daily life, I can’t think it’s absolutely ridiculous that someone has to give up their life and sacrifice themselves for two decades to prove they’re not a piece of crap just because, as a teenager, they decided to follow a group of fanatics and later regretted it. In the same way, I understand how several people I’ve known made similar decisions back in the day and a decade later are deeply ashamed of it, but they’re now functional people who have channeled their lives into positive things.

I get that, from the perspective of a children’s novel, the figure of the nasty teacher who always tries to mess with the protagonist and his friends is treated by the narrative as something negative, not cool, and inappropriate. I also understand people who feel triggered by dysfunctional adults who can’t manage their trauma around kids. But as someone outside that narrative, I can think it’s utterly childish because I’m 28 years old, my friends and coworkers range from 25 to 35, and we’re all a mess because being an adult is absolute crap, and being an adult who’s overworked and dealing with mental baggage sometimes makes you a pretty unpleasant person.

I understand that, in the saga’s world, calling someone a “mudblood” is the worst insult ever. But as a human being outside that world, I understand that someone insulting another person in the middle of a traumatic, high-stress moment can’t just be condemned so easily because, well, there’s a context, and it’s perfectly understandable. And I also get that if you have a friend, and that friend is kind of flirting with your bully, they don’t just deserve an insult—they deserve two slaps.

So the point isn’t that I excuse Severus—it’s that my morality doesn’t allow me to see the things he did as unforgivable. I think he made some mistakes, and I think he paid a much higher price for them than he deserved, considering his background and personal context. The fact that he, as a character, might think his sins are much greater than how I perceive them is another matter. The fact that he, as a character, feels the need to endure decades of penance to feel like he’s atoned is also another matter. In the same way, I can think, in the real world, that what someone did is a triviality while, for them, it’s something deeply wrong, and they need to make amends for it. It’s a matter of perspective.

I’ve never denied in any analysis that Severus’s entire story revolves around guilt and the search for redemption. In fact, I often comment on it—that everything stems from his feelings of guilt. Now, if you ask me personally what my opinion on the matter is, I’d say he didn’t really have that much to feel guilty about because, on a scale of one to ten, his crimes are, at most, a six.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Your post mentioning why #41 is your least favorite, and why a simple one-sentence explanation of Anti-Morphing Ray would improve it tremendously, made me think of one thing that would make #40 *slightly* better for me: if the bees they morphed were solitary carpenter bee type species, which actively DON'T live in hives and presumably don't have a social mindset that would be a PTSD trigger for our protags.

Even better, some of those bees are known for hovering for ages in the same spot certain times of year, which would make them the perfect surveillance bugs for discovering the hidden secrets of new-found Andalite pals!

Yes, that's good point! I gnash my teeth over #40 because it has such wasted potential. It's, like, three lines away from being a damn good Animorphs book. Setting aside a version where Gafinilan introduces Mertil as his husband (I get why that can't happen in a 90s children's book) it could be vastly improved with a few tweaks:

Carpenter bees! You're right that that fixes the continuity, both plot-wise and character-wise, by having non-social bees.

Have Gaf say he and Mert "are vecols." Or else add a line clarifying that "vecol" means "visibly disabled." Either works, and either one has interesting implications for andalite culture, without being ham-fistedly ignorant about invisible disability.

Give Mertil a personality. Which could be done with one line — he only needs one wry comment as he's being rescued, a kind remark about bees, a silly pet name for Gaf. Just... something.

Drop the line about "the girlfriend" supporting Jake no matter what. Marco can be sexist, but that's too far even for him.

REMEMBER TOBIAS EXISTS. Especially when Ax announces that anyone who chooses to become a nothlit is "a coward" and Cassie agrees that Gaf is no coward and thus would never trap himself in morph. Tobias has TWO LINES in that scene, one of which is "Sounds reasonable." He's also there for Jake's and Gaf's conversation about nothlits and vecols, and again barely says a word. Again, you only need one line — just have Marco notice that Tobias isn't weighing in.  #37, #38, and #41 comment on Tobias being dissociated after Taylor fucked him up, so you can explain his near non-existence in this story. But at least explain it, ideally while making Ax look marginally less dickish toward his shorm.

[transfemme-shelterdog]

On the kink discourse: //CSA mention, suicidal ideation mention, OCD guilt + shame

Ageplay is another one of those really stigmatized kinks that people hate on even if both parties are consenting (because obviously there has to be some kind of abuse dynamic going on. demonization the Dom as well)

This is something that I've never admitted to in my life, but I love CG/L dynamics. I didn't really have a choice in developing it; I involuntarily age-regress and because of sexual abuse I faced as a child from my father, my brain has crossed wires and made it so whenever I (once again, involuntarily and usually because of a trigger) age-regress, my mind goes into a sexual space (subspace/littlespace). Or if I am in a sexual situation, my brain will cause me to age-regress as a coping mechanism.

For a long time I was ashamed of this, even to the point of getting rid of or hiding comfort items I would use during regression because I wanted it to feel as horrible as possible so it would stop happening (at least, that was my logic). I, at one point, had tried to get into SFW age-regression spaces but upon seeing the sometimes vitriolic reaction they had to CG/L people existing at all made me feel like I was unwelcome because of the unwanted feelings age-regression brought out in me. I ended up leaving those spaces because I felt so guilty that it was making me suicidal (I have Moral OCD, for reference). My brain was a constant stream of 'I'm sorry. I know I'm bad. I don't want this either. I want to be normal. Why am I so broken?' (This isn't to say that SFW age-regression spaces can't be a thing, I just wish there was more empathy for people in situations like mine)

It wasn't until I realized that I was acting in the same neglectful way towards myself that my parent's acted when I was a kid that I started being more gentle with myself. I still feel a lot of guilt and shame regarding this (which is why I'm on anon even while logged in to my kink blog. just having this blog has helped immensely with it, but it's still a work in progress).

(Also, I just want to say that I love your blog a lot. I love the nuance you give to lots of topics. It's oddly reassuring when I'm getting trapped in the OCD thought spirals about being a bad person)

You're more than welcome Anon. You're not a bad person for having agere coping mechanisms, and I hope you realize that. Everyone copes with trauma in their own ways, and no way is more or more less valid than another. It's neither morally good, nor bad to cope the way you are, and that means that you have all the right to do whatever helps with your trauma best.

You're a good person, and deserving of love and support. I hope you know that sweetheart.

Agere all you want and all you need, I'll always be here to defend and support you. <3