#its hard not to fall into defeatism when nothing you or the people you are aligned with seems to matter

[knifefght]

well. here's to hoping he and vance both kick the bucket. the only thing keeping me together is that and the fact that he cannot legally run for a third term. maybe the cognitive decline will speed up and he'll just talk about hannibal lector for the entire term. one can hope.

[cherienymphe]

Basic Training XVII (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mentions of MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

~

You stared into the darkness of the basement for what felt like too long.

It was quiet down there, but not the kind of quiet that felt comforting. It was the kind of silence that felt suffocating—taunting. It was so loud in its taunting, snickering at you and your idiocy and naivety. Even as you laid on the floor, feeling like the lowest of jokes, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret the decisions that brought you here.

Nat was your friend. Or at least, you liked to consider her one, and even faced with the threat of the worst punishment Steve could muster, you just couldn’t imagine yourself doing anything differently. You couldn’t imagine yourself waking Peter up that night and telling him you saw the redhead escaping, effectively alerting the other husbands to her presence, leading to her subsequent capture. It just wasn’t in you, and clearly none of these men—not even Peter—knew you at all if they thought it was.

The first time you tried to move, you couldn’t, and for a brief moment, you thought that Steve had injured you in his delight to toss you down the stairs like a sack of flour instead of a person. However, you quickly came to realize that wasn’t the case. You could move your fingers and toes fine, even twitch your leg, but you just couldn’t find the strength to move. You felt beyond defeated, and when you blinked, you weren’t shocked to feel a sting behind your eyes.

There was the most awful aching feeling in your chest, both heavy and hollow even though you didn’t know how that was possible. You wanted to cry and scream, but you also never wanted to utter another word ever again. You wanted to let out everything you felt since the moment you came here, but in the same breath, you desperately wanted to feel numb. If you didn’t feel a thing, then you couldn’t get hurt, and you hurt so much, right now.

Peter killed Michelle.

He didn’t help kill her, but he did kill her, and in the grand scheme of things, maybe that shouldn’t make a difference. After all, you’d still been under the impression that he did nothing while his brothers did. You’d still been under the belief that he allowed it to happen at best and helped it happen and cover it up at worst. So, why did Peter pulling the trigger make all the difference in the world to you?

Was it because you thought you were falling in love with him?

That thought had you squeezing your eyes shut, so tight that it hurt, and it was hard to hold back your sob. Your nails scraped against the hard floor as you shook, struggling to breathe as your stomach turned. Once you started it was so hard to stop, and it wasn’t long before the sound of your choked cries were filling the basement. It was a thought you’d considered before, but that was when he wasn’t a murderer.

That was when he hadn’t murdered your best friend.

How could you possibly rationalize it now? Deep down, you knew that this wasn’t your fault. Deep down you knew that there were names and studies dedicated to people in your position and the psychology behind it, but that didn’t make you feel any better. Peter had murdered your friend in cold blood…

…and you thought you loved him.

The thought made you want to be sick, and with horror, you could actually feel your stomach turning. You hurried to sit up, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you struggled to keep it down. The bathroom only some feet away was locked—wouldn’t be unlocked until someone came down to open it and let you in—and you didn’t think you could handle sitting in a room with your vomit just stewing in the corner.

Struggling to get to your feet, you pressed your other hand to your stomach, trying to settle it. Keeping your mouth closed, you breathed through your nose, lashes fluttering, and after some time, you slowly stumbled towards where you knew the bed to be. You didn’t care about turning on the light, finding no need, and when you sat down, your head drooped in defeat.

There was really no telling how long they’d keep you in here until they figured out what to do with you, and while you knew that Peter would try his damndest to get them to go easy on you, you also knew that they wouldn’t consider a word that left his mouth. You—and also Peter by extension—had proven Steve and the others right, and you found it unlikely they’d ever listen to another suggestion from Peter about you ever again. Or at the very least, not for a long time.

Besides, Peter wasn’t the aggrieved party.

Bucky was, and such a thought made you shudder. You’d done well to avoid attracting Bucky’s ire even though he reminded you of Steve in some ways. Although, unlike Steve, Bucky didn’t seem the type to look for any and every excuse to punish you as he’d prefer in a contrast to Peter’s methods. Bucky seemed—if nothing else—fair to you, and that’s what scared you the most.

Bucky now felt wronged by you.

So, there was really no telling what was in store for you.

You recalled the way he’d reached for you, desperately trying to get past Peter in his efforts to get his hands on you. You didn’t want to imagine what he would’ve done had he succeeded, and you swallowed as your mind went rampant with the possibilities. Your hand came up to graze the tear in your sleeve, wincing at the slight sting you felt when your finger came in contact with the skin. Some part of you knew that had Bucky succeeded, he just might have killed you in his rage, and where you once would’ve welcomed such a thought…

It only made your heart ache, now.

You didn’t want to die, and when you thought about why, your stomach only twisted into knots once again. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you keeled over, throat tight as you tried to swallow down another sob. Your chest hurt so much, feeling like someone had an iron grip on your heart and was just squeezing and twisting it to their content. When you gasped, a cry escaped with it, and the only other time you could recall feeling like this was the day you realized your friends were dead and you were all alone.

You cried until your throat felt raw, and you didn’t fight your body as it started to collapse to the floor, sliding off of the bed in a heap. Covering your face with your hands, your lightly dragged your nails down your skin, frame shaking as you rocked back and forth. Your stomach wouldn’t stop hurting, and you couldn’t stop shaking. In fear or anger or despair—you didn’t know.

You did know that this was all Peter’s fault. He was the one who decided he had to have you, as if you were some thing to be acquired instead of a human being with a life and feelings and autonomy. If it weren’t for him, your friends would still be alive, and you wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be feeling ripped apart by how you felt about the man who kidnapped and raped you. All of this was Peter’s fault…and even still…more than anything…

All you wanted was for him to hold you.

It was hard to say how long you stayed in the basement. The darkness and silence was endless, and it felt like months, but in reality, it was probably mere days. You did know that it was long enough for your stomach to ache from more than just fear and for your nightgown to stink from more than just sweat. You didn’t think you were capable of feeling embarrassed about that anymore. After all, Peter never made you feel like it was something to be embarrassed about, but that was before you heard the sound of the locks on the basement door.

Despite your shame, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

Until the light from the top of the stairs outlined a familiar silhouette.

You merely stared at him as he stood on the first step, yours on him and his eyes on you. You couldn’t hear any noise coming from the main part of the house, and you said nothing when he closed the door behind him. Peter wasn’t good. You knew that since the beginning when he told you that everything he did was so that he could have you, making it all okay. Peter had never been good.

So, why did looking at him now hurt so much more than it ever had?

As soon as Peter was close enough, the first thing he did was take your face into his hands. You couldn’t really feel them, realizing that you got your wish to feel numb, and that just made your chest ache more. Just days ago you were desperate to feel the comfort of Peter’s touch, and now you couldn’t feel it, at all.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, face a mere inch away from yours.

When you didn’t say anything back, you noticed the way his face fell, lips pressed together as he eyed you. His gaze lingered on yours for the longest, thumbs just grazing your skin, and you watched the way his tongue darted out to swipe between his lips.

“We need to get you cleaned up.”

His words had you blinking, and it was only then did you notice the fresh dress resting on the crook of his arm. You didn’t ask him what day it was because it didn’t matter. You only knew what would be happening today, and it’s why the dress on Peter’s arm was so pretty. It was why you’d been locked in the basement for days. It was why Peter looked at you the way he did as he helped you stand.

“I’m so sorry,” were the words he murmured into your hair as soon as he leaned you against him.

What was he apologizing for exactly? For killing Michelle or lying to you about it? For taking you and ruining your life in the first place? Or for failing to protect you from the wrath of the other husbands? Maybe he was apologizing for what was to come, and that made you shut your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again as he brought your head to rest in the crook of his neck.

You didn’t respond—didn’t know how to—only allowing him to guide you into the bathroom after unlocking it. You couldn’t really say how you got naked, only feeling as if you blinked before finding yourself sitting in a tub of hot water with Peter raining water down over your head. He was talking to you, saying something that went in one ear and out of the other. All you could focus on was that dress on the toilet, wondering what they planned to make you do while wearing it.

When you felt the weight of Peter’s gaze, it was only then did you take note of the silence. You didn’t know if he’d asked you a question or if he simply opted to stare at you, but when his hand came up to graze the side of your face, you assumed it was the latter. Perusing you, you watched as his gaze became distracted by the shallow scrape on your arm from Bucky’s nails, and when Peter’s jaw tightened, you knew that he realized where it came from too.

“Peter,” you softly forced out, throat tight.

He gave you his undivided attention, and you licked your lips.

“What are they going to do to me?”

Your question came out almost inaudible, just barely above a whisper as you found yourself almost too afraid to ask—too fearful to want to know. When Peter’s face fell some, your own frown deepened, and when he sighed, your heart sank.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he slowly told you, and you could see that he was telling the truth.

You knew that Peter would have no say in this, you’d known that, but faced with the knowledge that was completely in the dark only served to make your stomach twist more. Only this time, you weren’t able to stop it, and it was Peter who kept you from falling as you hurried to get out of the tub. You only just made it to the toilet in time, and with nothing in your stomach to throw up, all you expelled was bile.

One of Peter’s hands were on your waist, the other soothingly rubbing your back as you vomited again. With every heave of your stomach, you shook more and more, and when you were done, you could only stare at the wall behind the toilet.

“You’re sick,” he said, tone strained with worry.

You shook your head.

“No, I’m just… I’m scared,” you honestly told him, lifting your gaze to meet his. “…and heartbroken.”

Peter sadly tilted his head, and your lips quivered.

“Why did you lie to me?” you breathed. “Why did you…? Why did you minimize your part in it?”

You continued before Peter could lie some more.

“Why did you hold me and comfort me and tell me you weren’t as bad as them when you’re much worse?”

“I’m not,” he argued, grabbing your shoulder.

“…but you are,” you said with a frown. “At least with Steve and Tony and Bucky I know who they are. I fear them because they’ve shown me why I should.”

Peter pulled you closer, resting your head on his chest as he rocked you.

“You made me love you.”

The words came out small and choked, your face crumbling as Peter stilled, and you’d stupidly thought you had no more tears left. Your body proved you wrong, frame shaking as your chest tightened, a cry escaping you in the otherwise quiet bathroom. Peter didn’t respond right away, just holding you as you cried.

“I’m still the same person I was before you found out,” he whispered, rocking you. “…the same person you begged to run away with.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’m not proud of what I did,” he confessed. “…but it’s why I can hold you every night for as long as I want.”

He leaned down to gently kiss your forehead, and your vacant and tearful gaze was on the bathtub, now.

“You don’t have to agree with it, even I don’t agree with it, but it had to be done if I wanted you all to myself.”

You knew that justified it all in Peter’s mind, and the part of your brain that was conditioned to normalize your new reality wanted to pull him closer, but the part that desperately missed your friends and family and old life only wanted to be sick.

When Peter rinsed you off and dried you, his fingers grazed your skin as he helped you get dressed. Soothing words left his lips that didn’t really mean much because how could he calm you against something that was unknown to him too? He didn’t even know what he was comforting you from. Once dressed, he stood before you, looking you over with his fingers grazing over yours.

When your eyes met his, his gaze softened, and you didn’t stop him when he leaned in to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. Like every touch and kiss of his, now, you didn’t really feel it, and when Peter pulled away, you felt that the numbness that consumed you reflected in your own gaze. He heaved a sigh, fingering the ring on your finger.

“I still love you,” he assured you, looking at you from beneath his lashes. “That’ll never change…and even… Even when I have to do whatever it is I have to do today, I’ll be doing it with love.”

Those words didn’t exactly comfort you, and your eyes briefly closed when he walked you out of the bathroom. The stairs were hard to take, courtesy of your lack of food and what little sleep you’d managed to get. You shook beside Peter, and you knew that it was from more than just not eating. In fact, you were sure you were going to throw up again.

The house was unusually quiet—as well as empty—and that did nothing to alleviate your uneasiness. Peter’s hold on your hand was gentle, and as much you loved to hate him in this moment, you appreciated that he walked outside with you instead of walking you outside like a prisoner. You were surprised by how early it was in the day, bringing your hand up to shield your eyes from the rising sun. Days in the darkness had them hurting from the harsh natural light.

Just as you got used to it, a familiar and intimidating voice spoke.

“Leave her right there.”

Only, it wasn’t the voice you were used to being on the receiving end of. Your eyes met familiar blue ones as Peter was forced to step away from you, Bucky’s gaze very much transparent as he looked at you. His anger and disgust were palpable, and you found that you couldn’t hold his gaze.

That was a mistake.

“You will look at me,” he sneered, hurrying over to you and harshly gripping your chin.

Behind him, you could see Peter take a step forward only to be stopped by Sam. Bucky’s fingers were painfully pressing into your skin, and as difficult as you found it, you held the brunette’s gaze. It was in that moment that you realized why the house had seemed so quiet on your way out. You noted that the only person missing was Jane, and you guessed with her pregnancy and a need for someone to watch Margaret and Sharon’s children, they decided to kill two birds with one stone.

They clearly didn’t want to stress her, and that only made you more fearful of what was in store for you.

“We’re not stupid, you know,” Bucky said to you, and you swallowed. “We expect the odd escape attempt here and there.”

You weren’t used to being on the receiving end of Bucky’s venomous gaze, blue eyes icy.

“We look forward to it even,” he confessed. “None of you will ever succeed, so it helps you realize that, and you get it out of your systems.”

You blinked back tears, and Bucky took note of them, lip curling over his teeth.

“In fact…we had been anticipating yours from the moment we let you out of that basement, but I guess you really were too docile to fight back properly,” he continued, voice growing bitter. “Too docile even to tell one of us when our wife was trying to escape.”

When you blinked again, a tear finally escaped, and you didn’t know if you were supposed to respond. Evidently you were.

“What?” Bucky wondered, roughly letting your chin go. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Your chest heaved with a deep breath, and you started to glance around.

“No, don’t look at them. Look at me,” Bucky ordered. “After all, it was my wife who anything could’ve happened to.”

When your gaze met his again, more tears spilled over, and you sniffed.

“I’m sorry-.”

“We expect you to fight back…try and make a run for it… What we don’t expect is more loyalty to a traitorous wife than the men of the house,” he interrupted you, spitting the words out and making you flinch. “…because anything could come of that. You could kill one of us.”

“I… I’m sorry,” you said again, knowing it wouldn’t change anything but also knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

Bucky stared at you for a long time—too long—just looking down his nose at you as if he could barely stand to look at you. You were all too aware of the eyes on you, all too aware of the example being made out of you. You were in the dark about what was going to happen, now, and it made you want to be sick. However, of all the things you expected…

You didn’t expect Bucky to quickly grab your arm, twisting it—and you with his other arm—before violently shoving you to the ground. It happened so fast that when you finally cried out in pain, clutching your wrist, you were already looking up at him from the grass. He wasn’t looking at you though, hands behind his back as he stepped away from you.

“There are two outcomes for you today,” he started, making his way towards Peter who looked like he was moments away from committing murder—again. “Personally, I’m partial to either outcome…”

When you started to push yourself to your feet, the dark-haired man heard it, pausing to look at you with a wag of his finger.

“No, no. You don’t get up yet…”

Heart sinking, you sat back down, clutching your arm to you as you looked between him and Peter.

“The first,” he dragged out, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We finally get to see what Peter has in him…”

You froze, skin growing cold and heart dropping to your gut.

“…see if he has what it takes to make you…” Bucky turned his gaze to you, eyes glinting wickedly “…beg him to stop.”

You couldn’t stop more tears from spilling over, the realization of what this day could possibly bring crashing down on you like a wave. When you glanced over, your eyes met a familiar green pair, and Nat’s disgust and regret was plain as day on her face. She looked at you like she wanted to take your place in a heartbeat, but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

You couldn’t hold in your sob, pressing your hand to your mouth.

“You can’t cry, now,” Bucky’s voice reached you as he neared you. “We haven’t even started yet.”

He forced you to your feet, and his hands were the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

When you first got here, Peter promised that that would never be you. He told you that he would never, but considering the circumstances of your offense, that choice was no longer up to him. You couldn’t stop sobbing, choking noises climbing out of your throat as Bucky continued.

“The other option is two months in the basement.”

When your eyes met Bucky’s again, there was a gleam in his eye and a curve to his lips that told you it wouldn’t be so easy as choosing which you’d prefer. You didn’t even want to say that the choice would be easy if given one because while your worst fear was recreating what Margaret had to go through during your first days here…you also knew that two months down in that darkness would break you beyond belief.

Two months down there, and you were sure you wouldn’t even be yourself when you emerged.

“It all depends on who gets to you first,” Bucky softly said, making you frown at him.

When he stepped away, you swayed on your feet, but his hand met your arm again when he turned you towards the small pond, free arm gesturing towards the dense trees behind it.

“Those legs that are near and dear to Peter’s heart are going to take you as far as you can go…”

His whispered words made you frown.

“Now, don’t think that you’re getting away…” he looked at you and you slowly looked at him. “…because you’re not. Someone will catch you, it’s only a matter of who, and that determines if this pretty little dress is coming off or not.”

His reminder of one of the possibilities made you lightheaded, and you pressed your hand to your chest when he walked away.

“If Peter catches you, then Peter will do what he has been instructed to do…”

The man in question spoke up, quietly pleading with Bucky, but the older man ignored him.

“…and I was going to participate in this little game,” Bucky said, jaw ticking as he looked at you. “…but you deserve to be terrified after what you did.”

You pressed your lips together, blinking away tears as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“So…” he backed up, a small smile on his pink lips. “If Steve catches you…”

You couldn’t stop your knees from buckling, world spinning as you caught yourself on your hands and knees. Your skin pricked, and you felt almost on the verge of a heart attack.

“He gets to put you in the basement…” a pause. “Again.”

The sounds of the world were going in and out, and once again, you felt like you were going to throw up. Both options were the last thing you ever wanted, and once you ran into those trees, you didn’t know what would relieve you less—the sight of Peter or the sight of Steve. It was sick, really, because obviously you would rather be caught by Peter, but not if it meant…that.

…and if Steve caught you, you just knew it wasn’t going to be that simple

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Bucky’s words were mocking, filled with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction, and as you looked up at him, you didn’t know who you hated more—him or Steve. The blond in question was someone you had avoided looking at since you stepped outside, bitter to see the sick satisfaction that no doubt covered his features at your humiliation.

Your comeuppance.

Pushing yourself to your feet was a struggle, and you didn’t look at Peter, too afraid to realize that he might be who you wanted to catch you, after all, even if it did mean public humiliation beyond comprehension. You felt beyond alone as you walked down the small decline, the dewy grass so nice against the soles of your feet despite the circumstances.

It was only when you got to the tree line, staring inside, did it hit you.

You were going to be hunted and chased down like some animal, and depending on who caught you first, that was what your punishment would be. Both options were enough to make your stomach flip, and for the life of you, you just couldn’t decide which was better. With a panicked sob, you forced your feet to move.

Every tree looked just like the other to you, and there was nothing in these woods to signal some kind of progress as you ran. It was crazy to think that there had once been days when you dreamed about being in these woods, closer to freedom and away from the craziness you’d been forced into. Now, however, you were in said trees and all you could think about was who would get to you first.

Bucky’s words echoed in your mind.

It wasn’t a matter of whether either of them would catch you. Both of you knew that you weren’t getting away from here, let alone from Peter or Steve in these woods. One of them was going to find you first, and even as you brushed past harmful branches and stumbling vines, you still didn’t know which choice presented to you was better. More than anything, you wanted it to be Peter to find you, but could you be okay with being raped for the whole household to see? This wasn’t like that day with Margaret…

Both Steve and Bucky wanted to make the biggest example out of you, and so the entire household would be there to witness your humiliation. However…it was one day. One hour even at the most of Peter doing what he normally did whenever you were alone…just in front of everyone else. If Steve caught you on the other hand…

Two months in the basement was a thought that actually made your knees shake, causing you to stumble against a tree. You knew—you knew—that you couldn’t handle that, and you knew that Peter knew it too. One option was just one bad day, that was all, but the other option would turn you into even more of a mess than you already were. You’d spent less than a week down there at the most, and both times were hell for you.

The second more so than the worst, and you didn’t want to unpack why that was.

When you heard a tree branch snap, you felt yourself freezing. The tree you were next to was larger, much larger than you, and you remained perfectly still as your hand rested against it. You had only stopped for a few moments, and the whole time you’d been lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even heard any footsteps. In fact, something in you told you that you were supposed to hear the snap of that branch.

When you dared to peek around the trunk, all of your breath left you.

The sight of Steve’s blond hair and back was a stomach turning one, and just as quietly as you peeked around, you hid yourself behind the tree once more. With one movement, you could end this torture and not have to be fucked for the whole household to see, but no matter how much you didn’t want that…you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

…because you didn’t want the alternative either.

Steve terrified you beyond belief—something Bucky had acknowledged—and something in you just knew that he wasn’t going to find you and take you back to the house as easy as that. Outside of raping Margaret, you had never heard of Steve doling out any kind of physical abuse, but you had a sneaking suspicion that Steve would strike you square across the face if he could get away with it.

Peeking around the tree again, you watched him walk away, scanning the area before him for any sign of you. Your nails pressed into the trunk, and with a sinking heart, you both accepted and hoped that Peter would find you, making peace with what that meant for you. With Steve completely out of your sight, you didn’t know which way to go, and so you went forward, adjacent to the direction Steve went.

You felt like you were getting so turned around the further you walked, and you wondered what would happen if you just decided to go back to the house. You wondered how the punishment would be decided then—provided you actually made it back without being caught. The thought of being caught by Steve prevented you from remaining calm and thinking clearly.

Or maybe it was everything else that did that.

You could feel a familiar burn behind your eyes, and you struggled to swallow, throat feeling incredibly tight. You’d thought that you cried enough in the basement, but that kept proving to be untrue. A few tears skipped down your face before many more followed behind, and you took in a shaky breath.

How was it that you hated Peter so so much for what he did…while also wanting nothing more than to just return to your bedroom with him when this was over? You didn’t want to go back down there, alone and bathed in darkness. You wanted to sleep in your bed with Peter and you wanted him to hold you while you cried about the very thing he’d done that caused the tears.

You hated him, but you wanted to be near him.

You didn’t want to hate him from afar. You wanted to hate him while staring at his face every night and listening to the sound of his breathing and feeling his hands on your shoulder as he sat behind you in the bathtub. You hated Peter so much for what he did—and lying about it—but it just wasn’t the kind of hate where you couldn’t stand the sight of him, and you hated him all the more for that.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of footsteps, and considering you’d gone in the opposite direction of Steve, you were prepared to meet your fate when your gaze would meet that of a familiar brown one. Only, the eyes that met yours weren’t brown…they were blue…and you felt your lips part.

You didn’t hesitate to run the other way, a scream climbing out of your throat when you were tackled to the ground. Steve’s hand was pressed to the back of your head as he slammed your face against the leaves and sticks, making you gasp, and when his arm snaked around your neck, a choked sound left you.

You weren’t surprised when he threw you to the dirt again.

“I knew…” he started, slowly following you as you attempted to crawl away. “From the moment Peter gave us that crock of shit about a gentler method, I fucking knew.”

You clawed at the dirt when Steve reached down to pull on one of your legs.

“I knew then that he was being too soft with you,” he spat, flipping you over. “I knew that it would come back to bite us.”

Steve squatted over you, one hand tightly curling around your throat, and you struggled to breathe as he slowly forced you to your feet. Your scraped at his hand, gaze tearful and pleading as Steve stared you down, nostrils flaring. His blond hair was a mess, an unusual sight for you, but those blue eyes were as cold as ever.

Steve really hated you.

“Bucky is better than me,” Steve hissed at you. “…because if Margaret had gotten as far as Nat did because of you, I wouldn’t make Peter stop until you were begging for him to put you out of your misery.”

You pushed at his hands, panicked, and he only shook you in response.

“You think he’s your best fucking friend,” Steve breathed through clenched teeth, sizing you up. “Instead of the man who owns you.”

When he threw you down, your head spun, and you struggled to right your vision. You pressed your hands to your temples as you cried, fighting the urge to curl in on yourself.

“That ends today…”

Steve’s words were spoken with finality, and you didn’t quite understand the meaning of them as you heard approaching footsteps. You heard Steve exhale, and when you dared to look up, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of Peter.

“Peter,” he acknowledged. “Love that timing of yours.”

Peter didn’t hesitate to hurry towards you, placing a hand on your head as you sobbed. As you’d suspected, you knew it wasn’t going to be that simple if Steve caught you instead, and you realized just how complicated it was going to be at the sound of his next words.

“We need to make sure nothing like this happens again, Peter,” Steve told him, and they shared a look, something unspoken between them that had Peter’s jaw clenching.

“So, is that why you forgot who she belongs to? Is that why you treated her like you used to treat Peggy on her really bad days? She’s already terrified of you. What more do you want?” he sneered at him, briefly looking at you and brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“I need her to be terrified of you,” Steve answered, hands on his hips. “I told you from the beginning that you were too soft with her. I told you what needed to be done for her to get it.”

“Yeah, Steve, alright, I get it-!”

“…but you don’t,” Steve yelled at Peter, staring at the younger man just like a brother would. “You don’t get it because if you did, this would’ve never happened.”

Steve gestured around, cutting you a scathing look that made you wither.

“She would’ve never felt more loyal to Nat than the men who run this household. She would’ve understood that she exists to serve you and the house as a whole by extension.”

You hated the way Peter’s hands slowed on your face, and when you looked at his own face, he looked to be deep in thought.

“Not just the wives and whatever they think is best, but what’s best for the family,” Steve paced. “You are going to make her understand that she’s not your friend and certainly not your fucking equal.”

You watched Peter defeatedly exhale, eyes falling closed.

“You are going to make her understand that, right now,” Steve snarled.

“Steve…”

Peter’s tone was pleading, and that was when you finally sat up, looking between them with a racing heart. You scooted back, but Peter’s hand on your arm prevented you from going far. When your gaze met his, his eyes had softened, something in them pleading with you.

“I will make you, Peter.”

Steve’s tone was scarily calm, and you glanced at him, lips shaking at the malice in his eyes.

“Do you understand me? I will not rest until I catch her slipping up again, and depending on my mood that day, I just might make you fuck her right there in the garden for all to see,” he quietly told him. “So, it’s either now or it’s later…but it is happening. You decide.”

In truth, you didn’t know why you were crying. You had already accepted that you’d rather get the bad thing over with than drag it out for two months. However, that was the thing, wasn’t it? Steve was going to make Peter do this and still turn around and throw you right down in that basement. Even though there was less humiliation involved, it still seemed unfair.

“Do this and…maybe I can convince Bucky to only leave her down there for a month,” Steve proposed, and by the tone of his voice, he knew that he’d won.

You barely had time send Steve a scathing look of your own before your back roughly met the ground.

Peter’s mannerisms were rough, and while you knew it was because Steve wanted them to be, it didn’t mean you had to like it. You didn’t think Peter had ever been rough with you, and you cried out at the harsh pull on your hair, his other hand painfully digging into your waist.

“See, you need to understand, sweetheart,” Steve’s voice reached your ears as he circled you. “That you belong to Peter. You exist as an extension of him, now. You exist to exalt him, and the only way that you will get it in your head that you’re his property…”

Peter had flipped you onto your stomach, now.

“Is if he treats you like it.”

You yelped when your chest was forced to the ground, Peter manhandling you in the way he knew Steve wanted.

“…and what better way to do that than to show you that he can and will take you wherever and whenever regardless of who is around to see it,” he slowly said, making sure he was heard loud and clear.

The humiliation of feeling Peter push his cock into you before Steve’s very eyes had you squeezing yours shut, a harsh sob escaping as Peter’s skin slapped against yours. His hand was on your throat, and you clawed at it, gasping when his teeth pressed into your shoulder.

“You don’t have autonomy over your body anymore. You don’t exist independently of Peter, and that extends to this family…”

Peter’s harsh thrusts made your toes curl, and what was once a rough entry had become much smoother. With no warning and feeling wholly unprepared for this turn of events, tears escaped your eyes, and your fingers dug into the grass and dirt. The feel of Peter’s cock pushing into your walls was a familiar one you’d grown to love, but the sound of Steve’s pacing steps and voice made you want to crawl in a hole.

You felt torn apart.

“Had you previously understood that, all of this could’ve been prevented.”

Steve sounded pleased with himself—and Peter—and the thought made you sick. When Peter pulled your head back, you winced, and you started to move away from him, wanting this earlier and regretting it now—especially since you were going back into the basement anyway.

When Peter’s lips grazed your ear, you shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you, hand painfully pulling at your hair, making you cry out again.

You recalled Peter’s words from earlier, and you knew why this was happening. You understood the hierarchy in the household, understood that what Steve said went, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Steve would’ve absolutely made this happen for the whole house to say. You understood that this was the better alternative, but that understanding is what made you cry more.

This wasn’t something to be understood. The man thrusting into you had killed your friends and kidnapped you, and the man before you had helped. Peter wasn’t your husband or your lover but instead your captor and rapist. Nothing about any of this was right, and in this moment, you shouldn’t be rationalizing or understanding anything.

…but you did.

You understood why Peter grabbed you with no hesitation and proceeded to fuck you under Steve’s watchful eye. You understood why being raped for all to see had briefly been the better choice to you than being sent back into the basement. You understood why Peter was murmuring sweet nothings and apologies into your ear as he roughly held you down and plunged his cock into you.

You understood it all, and you hated it.

You didn’t want to simultaneously hold Peter closer and push him away as he roughly fucked you against the grass, face to face with you, now. You didn’t want him to obey when Steve told him to fuck you harder. You didn’t want to understand that Peter didn’t actually want this because if that were true he simply wouldn’t do it, right? You didn’t want to accept that this house didn’t follow the rules of the outside world and that so long as you were here—and you would be here forever—neither would you.

“Are you sorry, now?” Steve wondered, somehow able to hear his voice over the sound of your cries. “Hmm?”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but you knew you gave him that anyway the moment you started crying. When Peter’s eyes met yours, he shushed you, a poor attempt to make this better somehow, and his next words made you blink.

“Do you see how much worse I could be?” he whispered, too low for Steve to hear. “How much worse they want me to be?”

You stared at him, nails digging into the skin of his arm, and with another harsh sob, you nodded.

“Do you understand what I’ve been trying to protect you from?”

Again, you nodded.

Peter’s nose grazed your own.

“Do you get it now?” he sadly asked you.

When you nodded again, unable to find your voice between cries, Peter shushed you. His fingers pressed into your skin, and his hips painfully came down against yours. When his lips pressed against yours, they swallowed the noises that escaped your throat.

“I never wanted this for you.”

…and you knew Peter was telling the truth.

[rishiguro]

VERDICT - NEUVILLETTE

warnings: mentions of murder. mentions of minor character death. reader has a brother. 3k+ words

a/n: happy angstober people

angstober event

you’ve heard a lot of stories about the fortress of meropide growing up in fontaine.

a prison, not just underground, but underwater, hidden from everybody. a place to lock away the criminals, with barely anybody ever returning after they served their time. personally, you’ve never encountered anybody that actually went there, only a couple of imposters, posing for the media with some wild stories. and while most of these stories sounded like they were trying too hard to get people’s attention with some wild preposterous claims and grotesque details, no one could ever really disprove whatever was said.

an aura of mystery surrounded the fortress and its so-called ‘duke’, like a thick fog, and everybody who dared to enter it to find out what was on the other side would never come back to tell the tale. 

who knows, you probably wouldn’t either.

because there was nothing left for you on the surface anymore. just like it was the case for so many people that you had briefly seen when you were given a small part of the fortress – your new home.

refusing to look at the man who was arguably the sole reason why you were in here in the first place, you kept looking up at the dirty ceiling above you. 

could you really spend the rest of your life here? the label ‘criminal’ forever stamped on your forehead for a crime you didn’t commit? 

tears welled up in your eyes as you remembered why you were in here, your chest tightening.

brother.

he seemed to notice your distress while sitting next to you, leaning his body slightly forward. “i’m afraid there’s nothing i can do,” neuvillette said, his voice sounding as apathetic as it did when he had sentenced you. 

blinking rapidly to clear your vision, you shook your head. “there must be,” you answered, turning your head a little. he couldn’t just leave you here, there had to be something he can do, anything, even if it was using his position of power as a literal ‘get-out-of-jail-card’. he couldn’t just turn his back on you, could he? “i swear, i didn’t do it. i’m innocent”

the man sighed, you don’t know if it was in defeat or annoyance. “you were proclaimed guilty”

proclaimed guilty by him. 

you clenched your jaw, pulling yourself up to sit upright on the bed, directly facing neuvillette now. “i thought you said you believed me”

for a long time, his belief in you was the only thing that kept you going. frankly, it was the only thing that helped you stay sane during your trial, the thing that kept you from bursting in tears as the prosecutor told some dramatic story to frame you for the heinous crime you were in for now.

crossing his arms in front of his chest, he looked down for a second, as if to gather his thoughts, carefully weighing his words in his mind. “this isn’t about what i believe in” 

you had to stop your jaw from falling slack, replaying his words over and over again in your mind. not about what he believed in? was this supposed to be a bad joke? a shocked laugh escaped you. he couldn’t be serious. “you’re the chief of justice! of course it’s about what you believe in!” you tried you best to keep your voice calm, but couldn’t help but get a little heated.

“it’s about what’s factual,” he replied immediately, his tone clearly not allowing any kind of protests. his eyes narrowed as he looked at you coldly, clenching his jaw for a second. he took a breath before continuing, his voice back to a regular volume. “and all the evidence is stacked against you” 

as he was talking you already shook your head in disbelief. “i’m innocent! why would i do such a horrible thing?” you reached out to him, grabbing his arm as he turned away, seemingly not wanting to see your outburst. was ist shame that was written all over his face? regret?

“tell me!” you demanded loudly, digging your fingers a little deeper into his arm in desperation. you had to stop yourself from shaking him as your voice grew unsteady and your breather grew a little flatter. “why would i kill my own family, my brother, when he’s the only person i had left?!”

it seemed like he didn‘t have an answer to that, not facing you while you looked at him, waiting for any kind of explanation.

he promised you that he believed you when you came to him with shaky knees and teary eyes, recounting the horrible accusations thrown your way.

he comforted you when you broke down crying, embracing you in one of his rare hugs unprompted while he muttered soft words into your ear, reminding you to breathe regularly.

he held you when you lashed out, angry at your brother for leaving you alone in this scary world and he held you when you fell apart later, feeling guilty for being the only one left and guilty for being angry at your brother in the first place. it wasn‘t his fault — and he certainly never wanted to leave you, you knew that.

the world was cruel and unjust.

but until now you believed that there was some sort of justice and fairness and neuvillette was the only reason you believed that.

even before you had met him you knew about him. his reputation was practically flawless — the people of fontaine spoke about him in a highly manner, a few maybe even more highly than they spoke of their archon: neuvillette was moral, just, fair, his verdicts always being the same ones that the oratrice mecanique d‘analyse cardinale would give, which made him seem infallible. 

and you believed it too. until he became the reason why you believed that the kind of justice served in fontaine wasn’t true, proper justice.

until you lost hope in the only thing that helped you stay sane after you came across the cold body of your own brother.

a shiver ran over neuvillette‘s back when he heard you laugh after his long silence. quickly you let go of his arm, dropping it like it was replaced by hot coals. “i can’t believe it,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief again. this had to be a joke. would he really lie to you like that when you were the most vulnerable? “you never believed me when i said i didn’t do it, did you?”

much to your dismay, he stayed quiet, only pursing his lips slightly before pressing them together into a thin line. would he really betray you like that? was he ever on your side? “answer me!”

only when hearing your desperate pleas did he look at you again with his determined eyes. “i did. i thought you had no motive” he cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat before crossing his legs like he always did. “as you said, i didn’t think you’d gain anything from murdering your brother”

you recognized this neutral look on his face — the very same look he always took on whenever he was in court, listening to the defender and the prosecutor and finally also delivering his verdict.

“what changed?” you clenched your jaw, anxious about his answer. 

what would it be? did he let himself be swayed by the public opinion, listening to the voices booing your story out? did he trust the prosecutor's fabricated and seemingly flawless story? or were you simply not convincing enough?

“the facts changed,” he calmly stated, making you huff in disagreement.

“bullshit,” you spat, “you just found another story to believe in”

not waiting a second to retort, he leaned back slightly. “i told you, it's not about what i want to believe in, delusions aren’t what makes our justice. it’s fairness, facts,” he sighed. you don‘t know if it was in defeat or in a disappointed manner. his voice became sharper again its him putting his chin higher. “and that is what i represent”

“you‘ve convicted an innocent person,” you declared, mirroring his expression and posture. 

he would leave you here to rot, by now you were sure of it. and yet to you it seemed like he didn‘t really grasp the gravity of this.

neuvillette convicted you of murder. and if this wasn‘t bad enough, he truly believed that you had it in yourself to kill your own brother, your flesh and blood.

the only person you had left.

“i don’t give the final verdict. that is out of my hands,” he claimed, clearly referring to the oratrice — the huge scale behind himself in the court‘s opera epiclese.

was he really pinning the blame on a machine, denying any kind of involvement in your current situation? like he had nothing to do with this?

wasn‘t he supposed to be independent and just? wasn‘t this why he prided himself in his position and why the people of fontaine trusted him? because their beliefs aligned?  

“yet your decisions are always the same. how could you do this to me?”

instead of answering, neuvillette stood up, turning his back on you and taking a few steps towards the exit of your cell, well, dormitory.

could he really just leave like this and leave you behind? did he not feel any kind of remorse, pity, pain?

the echoing steps came to a halt a few moments after. you looked up at him again, only to realize he had already reached the exit. he had his hand on the dark wall, looking at you over his shoulder.

he couldn‘t even properly turn around to talk to you and face you after dooming you?

“i’m afraid there’s nothing i can do,” neuvillette stated in a matter-of-factly tone, “your sentence will be carried out accordingly, unless you wish to evoke your right to challenge a duelist”

so this was it? he would just go and leave you here?

“if there is nothing you wish to say to me, i’ll take my leave”

you knew neuvillette didn‘t exactly feel the way you did. he had troubles with emotions, often lacking the proper words to fully express himself and describing what was going on inside of him. and you used to pride yourself in being able to understand him regardless, possessing the ability to read him almost like an open book. you helped him navigate through the complicated world of feelings, taking your time and going at your speed.

but right now, you were second-guessing everything. was he even capable of any kind of emotion? did he just fool you all this time?

did he truly not feel any kind of remorse for what he did, for what he was doing?

you shook your head in disbelief. this had to be a joke, a sick prank someone played on you and somehow got not just the entire nation of fontaine, but also somehow managed to get neuvillette to play along. at least that‘s what you wanted to believe. “so that’s supposed ‘justice’” 

neuvillette turned around, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “it is justice,” he stated, “it’s about facts, not fiction”

you almost burst out laughing as he said that, so convinced of the system he served in. 

and truly, you once were too.

but you couldn‘t, not anymore. not after seeing how the trial against you turned into some sort of drama, like it was straight out of a book. journalists were publishing articles with grotesque headlines, bombarding you with horrendous questions that left you cringing uncomfortably. 

you watched as the story the prosecutor told got more and more dramatic, pointing at you accusatory as he recounted the ‘true events‘ of the fateful night, completely ignoring whatever you said to dispute his claims. “it’s not about facts, it’s about convenience! it’s just theatrics and entertainment!” you yelled as you jumped on your feet, not being able to contain your voice any longer.

“whoever presents the story that convinces the most people will win. and the people of fontaine are so easy to be swayed,” you continued, not letting the man in front of you get a single word in, “so thirsty for some juicy drama that lets them forget about their boring lives”

you couldn‘t stop yourself from scoffing again before letting a condescending laugh escape you. “and they don’t even have the critical thinking to reflect on everything”

your trial simply proved what you just told him. your point of view, your truth, simply didn‘t matter to the prosecutor or to the public. their story seemed to convenient, something that could be right out of a criminal novel that they loved to devour so much. the headlines in the newspaper were too sensational to be considered factual, too virulent to make any person doubt it. 

“the public’s opinion does not sway the sentence,” neuvillette claimed with a clenched jaw, starting to look agitated. 

and it seemed like they managed to get neuvillette on their side too. 

a sad smile appeared on your face. “then i guess you’re stupid too” stupid for not listening to your side, stupid to believe the prosecutor, stupid to not make a rational judgment.

too stupid to realize that your supposed motive wasn’t a motive at all.

money. why would you kill your own brother for money when the two of you never had anything to begin with? you couldn’t steal something when there wasn‘t anything in the first place. neuvillette knew that. he knew you came from nothing, he knew the two of you had nothing. 

and even if it was a motive — no amount of money would ever be able to heal the wound you had sustained from losing your brother.

how could he be so stupid?

“you’re acting childish,” he stated calmly. 

you were in jail and possibly would never see the light of day again. you were locked in an underwater fortress for a crime you didn‘t commit and nobody believed you.

and his worry was that you were acting childish?

“oh, i’m sorry for not being calm and collected like you after being unjustly sentenced for murdering my own brother!” you raised your voice at him again, angrily stepping closer to him. “and that by the one person that i thought actually believed me”

you had to swallow down the lump in your throat again, blinking rapidly before looking into his eyes again. 

how could he do this to you? was he truly so heartless? 

would he really leave you here, alone and heartbroken?

a familiar warm hand slightly caressed your cheek. “i love you,” he whispered to you, in the same loving voice he had always used with you. “but i cannot make any exceptions” he stepped back, the warmth leaving your cheek again, letting the cold creep up to you again. he looked almost hurt himself and you were almost willing to feel pity for him — maybe if he wasn’t the chief of justice. maybe if he couldn’t put a stop to all of this, “not even for you”

maybe if he had kept his promise to you.

your fingertips grazed over your cheek, longing for the warmth that neuvillette’s hand provided just a few seconds earlier. your chest tightened as you dug your teeth into your lower lip, feeling your eyes well up again. “so that’s it? you love me, but not enough to believe me? not enough to keep me safe? free?”

you clenched your fists at your sides, not noticing that he was doing exactly the same.

“this is about so much more than just you!” he exclaimed angrily, his voice practically booming off the walls, “you’re too self-centered to understand this!” 

did not wanting to rot in prison after being framed for a crime really make you self-centered? was that all he thought of you now?

“it’s my duty! my promise to the people from fontaine, my promise to our archon and my promise to myself to uphold justice,” he continued his rant, his voice growing uncharacteristically theatrical. 

was he really just a part of the theatrics of fontaine‘s supposed just court? was his equitable self just a ruse, an act he put on to fit in?

did you ever really know him?

“what about your promise to me?” your voice wasn‘t much more than a whisper as you spoke, looking up at him. not that you‘d be able to actually see him with how blurry your vision got from the tears in your eyes.

as childish and naive as it was, you couldn‘t help but wish for him to remember.

it was a late summer night, the first evening where you could finally go out. the past days it had rained with seemingly no end in sight and now you felt like you could finally breathe again.

you had been strolling around the city without any real goal, simply admiring how many people enjoyed the summer warmth after so many cold and wet days. 

neuvillette‘s hand was entangled with yours, the two of you walking in silence, simply enjoying each other‘s company. you had been seeing each other for a while now and yet it was still early enough for you to feel slightly nervous whenever you were near him, stomach turning and feeling butterflies when you held hands, hugged or kissed. 

it was on that day when he pulled you close to the fountain of lucine, wrapping his arms around you as the two of you spend some time listening to the ambience — the water running, the pigeons and other birds chirping and the few people talking around you, some whispering wishes to the fountain, some gleefully joking with each other. 

most people had already left when he turned you around to face him, letting go of your waist to grab your hands, pressing a kiss on your knuckles before he spoke.

it was the first time that he told you that he loved you, finally revealing just how much he cared for you and cherished you. how he would do everything in his power to protect you, how he would always believe you and how he would always stay by your side. 

how even when everybody turned their back on you, you would always have him. 

and yet here you were now.

you didn’t know what you would prefer — him forgetting about that day or him remembering, but simply not caring enough to act on it.

like everything he had told you — promised you — has been a lie. 

clenching his jaw, neuvillette turned around again.

no.

blinking away your tears you weakly called out his name, a part of you still expecting him to turn around.

don‘t go.

you hoped for a miracle, a change of heart. you wanted him to rush to you, to comfort you, to love you again.

maybe then everything would turn out to be okay again.

you stumbled, the back of your knees hitting the chair he had been sitting earlier, falling onto it.

don‘t leave me.

you still hoped that everything was just a big mistake.

you called out to him again, fighting against the tears that kept welling up in your eyes, leaving neuvillette‘s figure in front of you all blurred again. “what about that? why can you betray me like that, but not them?”

“i’m sorry” and with that he left, not even sparing you a single glance on his way out, as you pulled your knees up, hugging them while the tears began to roll over your cheek again.

reblogs are appreciated !

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Why the Alpha Timeline is the Alpha Timeline

I figured I'd make a post, since it's pretty subtle and I think it genuinely passed a lot of people by? Homestuck is made up of a lot of words, haha.

The alpha timeline is described by Doc Scratch, functionally, as "the timeline that causes LE to exist."

The path which alone has my absolute mastery is the alpha timeline, a continuum I define as that which boasts exclusive rights both to my birth and to my death, two circumstantially simultaneous events.

Aranea also gives the explanation that the alpha timeline is the one where reality is perpetuated.

AG: Reality itself is using you and many others to propagate its own existence. Strictly speaking, there is only one path to its successful propagation. 8ut it still permits you to make choices.

Caliborn also states that his quest as a Lord of Time is coming to terms with the inevitability that everything, ever, in all of time, will be because of him - that he'll be the one to shape it, including the circumstances of his own defeat.

uu: AS A LORD OF TIME. I THINK I'M GOING TO MASTER TIME. NOT WITH MY BRAIN. WHICH WOULD BE TOO HARD. BUT WITH MY INSTINCTS. uu: LIKE IN A WAY THAT WORKS WITH MY NATURAL IMPULSES. SUCH AS MY AMBITION. MY WILL TO COMMIT MAYHEM. MY DESIRE TO PUNISH THOSE I DESPISE. uu: SO IF I WANT YOU TO BECOME STRONG. SO YOU CAN CHALLENGE ME LATER. AND I SEE EVIDENCE. THAT YOU PROBABLY BECOME SUCCESSFUL. uu: I THINK TO MYSELF. WHY SHOULDN'T I BE THE ONE TO MAKE THAT HAPPEN? IF IT'S GOING TO ANYWAY. uu: I THINK PART OF MY PERSONAL QUEST. IS TO BECOME AT EASE WITH THE FORCES OF INEVITABILITY. uu: INEVITABILITY THAT ALL THINGS SHOULD AND WILL FALL IN MY FAVOR. THAT ALL CAUSALITY ANSWERS TO ME. AND THAT ALL OUTCOMES NOT ONLY SERVE ME. BUT CONSIST OF MY BEING. uu: SO I FEEL THAT. THE MORE I GROW IN POWER. uu: THE MORE STUFF IT SHOULD TURN OUT I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR. uu: UP TO AND INCLUDING. EVERYTHING THAT EVER HAPPENS. uu: EVEN IF IT HAS TO BE. uu: RETROACTIVELY.

Aradia's stint as stewardess of the afterlife is explicitly described as "service to the lord of double death," and Dave explains that he acts instinctively - like Caliborn does - to fulfill the conditions of the alpha timeline. It's also worth noting that their classes, Maid and Knight, are roles that directly serve a Lord in the real world.

TEREZI: LUCK1LY YOU M4K3 4N 4DOR4BL3 H4NDM41D TO TH3 M4ST3R OF D34TH, 3SP3C14LLY 1N YOUR CUT3 CH3RRY P1X13 3NS3MBL3 ARADIA: you think so?

GG: well youre from the future right? GG: dont you know already if itll work? TG: yeah more or less TG: i never really studied how it went down all that closely TG: i just figured when the time came to sort it out the right thing to do would be obvious TG: like it is now TG: managing the loops is a balance of careful planning and just rolling with your in the moment decisions TG: and trusting they were the ones you were always supposed to make TG: by now im pretty used to having my intuition woven into the fabric of the alpha timeline

I'm starting with all that so I can explain that the GAME OVER timeline doesn't end when the time players disappear from it, like doomed timeline offshoots normally do, because it IS the alpha timeline: the sequence of events that causes GAME OVER to occur is the sequence of events that Caliborn/Lord English have chosen: one where (nearly) everyone dies, all hope of victory is lost, and his servant, the Condesce, gets to claim the Ultimate Reward, perpetuating the same misery and oppression in the new universe, and presumably all universes to come.

We see from Caliborn's chess match with Calliope that his (and by extension, LE)'s modus operandi is to follow the rules to the letter, while manipulating his opponent, tricking them with "shitty twists". It's always been explained that LE's actions have been "sanctioned by paradox space," that is, everything he's doing is explicitly allowed, nothing he's doing is against the rules - including the fact that he must be defeated. He has, via his mastery of time, perfectly engineered a situation where the only viable reality is the one where yes, he IS defeated... in the dream bubbles, by the dead and doomed, whom he sent to the dream bubbles in the first place via Condy, Jack English, and all the other boss fights. And his will, his ideals, are imposed on the new universe in spite of his defeat.

In a completely Watsonian read of the text, Lord English is an incredible villain because - subtly and unsublty - he IS basically responsible for every bad thing that ever happens, ever, to everyone. He has legitimately been the puppetmaster pulling the strings the entire time, pretty much all because Caliborn is a huge asshole who loves to hurt other people, and wants to do it as much as he can, to as many people as he can, for as long as he can.

But I think he's especially interesting through a Doylist perspective, through a reading of the text as a coming of age. Homestuck is a worth riddled with theme and symbolism, and thematically, Lord English represents everything that these kids need to overcome in order to mature into kind, empathetic adults who will be one day responsible for the care and oversight of a new universe. He represents selfishness, sadism, greed, destruction, oppression, fascism, murder, genocide, and hatred. And also literally the patriarchy.

And, you know what? Don't take my word for it. Here's Andrew Hussie's commentary from Book 6 Act 5 Act 2 Part 2:

Much of the logic [for who contributes to Lord English] orbits around these negative traits associated with men, or more specifically, the “toxically masculine” aspects often linked to certain male personalities. Dirk has a lot of these traits, which are central to Dave’s feelings of tension and abuse concerning his bro. The intellectual aggression, the power of assertion, the knowitall-ism, the mansplaining. That’s a lot of Dirk stuff when he’s at his worst. Equius shares a lot of those traits too, with some different points of emphasis. Both of them have this creepy-guy streak running through them, with strange or offputting interests, and seem to get a quiet kick out of making others uncomfortable through demonstrations of these fascinations. They are actually pretty similar characters in this way.

He's invited into the trolls' universe (and, by extension, the kids' universe) via the Dancestors, in an original sin kind of way. I'll let Hussie explain on their Formspring (emphasis mine):

We learn more about the troll race, as a once peaceful species and such before kid-ancestors as players scratched their session, though the short term relevance of this is mainly as a preamble to Scratch's religious story. Establishing an Eden-like paradise from which there is some departure through sin is sort of the boilerplate basis for religious lore. ... The failed players from peaceful Alternia made a classic "deal with the devil" move by causing the scratch after being given a choice by the mother of all monsters. (Echidna. Hey, she's a big snake!) By doing so they brought Scratch into their universe, and therefore all the things you'd expect that comes with summoning the devil.

The Dancestor's "departure through sin"? It was the fact that they couldn't get their shit together and grew up inside the Medium. That's why they're the age they are, 9 sweeps - adulthood by troll standards. They aren't kids anymore because that's the ultimate sign of having failed to do a coming of age. Symbolically, the Dancestors represent a prior generation of grown-ups that fucked everything up, leaving a huge mess for their descendents to clean up after. In fact, Doc Scratch even describes the alternate choice Echidna gave them:

The heroes could either accept their defeat along with the extinction of their race, and put no others at risk.

In other words, they could have stopped LE if they'd simply chosen not to Scratch. But once more, in line with their behavior up until that point, they chose the selfish option, and bore descendants into the world they ruined. They're immature, nasty, mean-spirited, cruel, callous, and shallow on purpose, because their role in the story is antagonistic. They're aligned (even if unwittingly) with Lord English, as they're the ones who directly invited him in via their failure to grow the fuck up.

There's also a reason why SBURB/SGRUB directly tie achieving godhood and reaching the Ultimate Reward to planetary quests fundamentally designed to help children mature. God-tiering is supposed to come at the end of one's quest, as achieving it directly teleports you to the Battlefield for the final boss.

AG: I really think how successfully they mature is tied to success in the game. It challenges the players in all the ways they need to 8e challenged to grow, which is different for every individual, and veeeeeeeery different for every race. AG: I don't think we were so hot at that aspect of the game. In fact, I'm sure we were quite awful. Hell, even I wasn't that gr8 at it! I actually just kinda fell ass 8ackwards into the god tier, to 8e honest.

And there's a perfectly functional Watsonian explanation for this - in order to increase the odds that the new universe will successfully propagate new universes, it's ideal to leave it in the hands of kind, mature people. But the Doylist explanation is, again, even more interesting.

Hussie has spoken extensively about the comic having always been about two things at its core: first, a creation myth... and second, a coming-of-age. These are complimentary themes, as Homestuck also makes statements about society and its effects on kids. In the real world, the kids of today become the voters, revolutionaries, and lawmakers of tomorrow. In Homestuck, they create, and are responsible for, a new universe.

I always saw HS as an exploration of young people developing relationships over the internet […] There’s a lot more to HS than just that obviously, but if there’s anything which it’s been about through and through, it’s modern kids relating to each other from afar, developing as people and growing up.

In fact, all the initial kids' entry artifacts are metaphors for "departures, loss of innocence, and sometimes the journey from childhood to adulthood outright." John biting an apple, symbolizing the act that cast Adam and Even from Eden. Rose breaking a bottle, the act of christening a boat, and an item integral to the main means by which she relates to her mother, alcohol - an adult substance. Dave hatching an egg, literally the act of bringing new life into the world. Jade shooting an effigy of her dog, both symbolic of Old Yeller, and of breaking a pinata, an act often done at quinceneras.

There comes a point in childhood where the child stops being a child - the safe, familiar, comfortable world that they knew stops existing, and they can never get it back. They are thrust into a world that is alien and massive, and forced to grapple with the weight of their future duties. They deal with losing their guardians and finding direction in their absence. They must decide how they want to grow up, and then are responsible for shaping the society that comes after them. In other words, SBURB/SGRUB in this metaphor represent adolescence.

Within that context, God-tiering is actually interesting because it symbolizes adulthood - a semi-permanent state that a child is supposed to reach at the end of their SBURB/SGRUB journey. And, in fact, it's treated that way - none of the characters reach god-tiering the "proper" way... and of our god-tiered characters, nearly all of them have some sort of emotional struggle with growing up too fast. Vriska with the expectations of her shitty society, Rose with her emulation of her mother, Dave with his abusive brother, and the Alpha kids with substance abuse (the jujus) and romantic drama.

Anyway, sometimes when Mario's running sideways he gets a star that makes him magic and invincible. OH. YOU MEAN HE BECOMES TRICKSTER MARIO. Yes, but less stupid. So for a while he becomes flashy and hyperactive and nothing's challenging anymore. He just starts barreling over mushrooms and leaping over pits as fast as he can, then gets to the end and jumps on the flagpole and that's it. Mario "wins". But the point is, he didn't really win. That magic star was actually devastating to his development as a human being. WHY. Because he skipped over many critical trials on his spiritual journey. Mario NEEDS to stomp on all those mushrooms. He NEEDS to bonk those bricks with his head, for the sake of his personal growth. By using the star, he is denying himself many powerful moments of catharsis.

Like... I dunno... seems pretty blatant to me!

So with Homestuck so firmly being a coming of age, and with the Dancestors - whose primary failure is that of unrelenting immaturity - being cast in an antagonistic role, doesn't that make Caliborn's position of ultimate final boss extremely fitting when we take this conversation into account?

You may be destined for bigger things, but you’re still an atrocious, stupid child. And you may have won the “game” with your sister, but that doesn’t mean it was the best thing for your development as a person. You had her dream self killed, which is not an opportunity your species typically gets. So she died prematurely, instead of allowing the conflict within you to settle itself naturally. In short, you forced your predomination to happen a little too early, and now you’re stuck. STUCK? Yes. Your personality is stuck in some sort of cantankerous prepubescent limbo. You are going to be a stunted, miserable tool forever.

He's literally a child who chose to stunt his own growth so that he could reap all the game's rewards for himself. Someone who so stubbornly desired the selfish, greedy, and immature option that he was willing to hurt himself to achieve it. Caliborn - and by extension, Lord English - is a direct symbol for the refusal to mature, to be kind, to care about other people. By including Dirk, Gamzee, and Equius at their worst, he also comes to represent misogyny, toxic masculinity, the patriarchy. He's the Condesce's master, and so by extension, he represents fascism and oppression; as Doc Scratch, he gets off on abusing girls, and so he also represents predators and abusers. And his goal is to perpetuate himself, his ideals, what he symbolically represents, down every successive generation. Much like how these cycles of abuse and oppression seek to perpetuate themselves in the real world!

And that's why the alpha timeline, the GAME OVER timeline, is the way that it is: it's one where Lord English WINS. In Lord English's version of the story, everything is fucked up forever. He might be defeated, as is the timeline's inevitability, but his politics, his bigotry, and his ideals live on.

Except.

Our Breath player gains a power that literally unsticks him from time.

Now, personally, I don't believe that the ending we got is the one that was originally intended. I don't feel the need to elaborate upon that here, but suffice to say, given how clearly and consistently these themes are set up throughout the entire rest of the comic, it just makes sense to me that the ending we got, where characters stay dead, never finish their character development, etc. etc., is a MASSIVE tonal and thematic departure, which smacks of external pressures and influences. Everything after [S] GAME OVER is soft canon to me for this reason. But there's things that survive in it that are really really interesting, so I'll mention some.

First, the pre-retcon versions of the characters still exist, as we see from (Vriska). That means that everyone who died in GAME OVER would not necessarily have stopped mattering to the plot. I firmly believe that the original ending would've seen Lord English confronted by the GAME OVER (characters), who would also have the most karmic claim to beating Lord English's face in. This would also satisfy his whole deal of playing by the rules - he knows he HAS to be defeated, he just gets to choose the circumstances of his defeat; without realizing that John's retcon powers can rewrite a timeline, he would've set up his own death to be in the bubbles, at the hands of the already-dead, while Condy claims the Ultimate Reward - thus making it so that he still wins in the end.

But Breath represents freedom, choices - and the retcon powers are something John gains mastery over after completing his personal quest, which we've established is directly tied, both literally and symbolically, into growing up and maturing. By becoming a kind, empathetic, mature adult, John is able to choose something else.

Second, that the Ultimate Self is brought up at all, which seems to me like it would mitigate the bittersweetness of the (characters) from GAME OVER staying dead - because, in my head, the original plan for the retcon was that it would bring everyone back, and therefore, all the (characters) from GAME OVER would live on through the surviving post-retcon gang, who will eventually achieve Ultimate Selfhood, as Davepetasprite^2 says they will. This would also directly mirror the words Godtier!Calliope gives to her counterpart:

CALLIOPE: bUt then... CALLIOPE: what shoUld i do? CALLIOPE: you don't need to do anything. CALLIOPE: be who you've become, and who i didn't. CALLIOPE: consume the fruits of an existence i could never understand. CALLIOPE: live.

Third, there's just so many outstanding plot threads, even for the characters that DO survive. Jake's prophesized to defeat Lord English, Dave never actually gets over his hesitance about time travel and defeating Lord English, Karkat has multiple means of bringing his dead friends back to life and doesn't say anything, Vriska and Terezi still aren't 100% reconciled, Gamzee's tragedy is never addressed, Jane, Dirk, Jake, and Roxy never really figure out their situationship, etc. etc. etc. ... to say nothing about all the plot threads left dangling for the characters that stay dead.

And finally...

Isn't that just kind of a better story? One where the kids get to grow, change, learn from their mistakes, and create a better, kinder universe, after defeating the avatars of cruelty, oppression, and immaturity?

Is it just me? Haha.

[lvis44]

Sweet Escape - The Wedding Pt.1 // LH44

Lewis Hamilton x Y/N

Warnings: Language, Alcohol Consumption, its really just a whole lot of fluff

Word Count: 1.7k+

Summary: Paradise is supposed to be fun and relaxing... a Sweet Escape, but when unspoken feelings and jealousy rise to the surface, everything can be turned upside down in the blink of an eye.

Notes: The beginning of the long awaited wedding! I have decided I will be releasing this in chunks, I cannot guarantee when each one will be coming but it will all be in the universe soon enough. I love you all and appreciate those of you have been kind and patient, I'm still here y'all I promise. Once again I cannot follow the same tense while writing and this has not been fully edited.

I am not a professional writer and all of this is a work of fiction and is strictly for fun. Enjoy! xxx

Previous Sections: Prologue - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Epilogue

What if I come and stay until 11:55?” His voice is whiny and desperate, making you laugh.

“Lewis, you have to go before Charlotte and Miles come and drag you.” You tell your pouting fiancé, still laughing at him.

You’re standing outside the fancy restaurant rented for your rehearsal dinner, snow falling around you as people start to clear out. Lewis had been attached to your hip for the last few days, his adoration for you only growing as you two approached your wedding day, The day that you had perfectly planned together.

“Wanna sleep next to you though.” Lewis says quietly, a cheeky smirk on his face as he pulls you against him, his hand traveling down to your bum.

“Lew! My parents are right there.” You whisper shout, grabbing his forearm to move it up to your lower back.

He just laughed, shaking his head before pressing himself against you even firmer, “Seriously, can we stay together just a little while longer? Promise I’ll leave before midnight.”

You could tell his intentions weren’t to sleep and you knew you would be hard pressed to kick him out later in the evening. You’re not a particularly traditional person but you were holding to sleeping apart the night before the wedding, much to his dismay. His mother had been the one to bring it up during wedding planning and while Lewis thought it was a horrible concept you were more than happy to go along, it made her happy and it made everything feel even more real. Two suites had been rented for the night at different hotels, mostly to keep Lewis from sneaking into your bed in the middle of the night.

“Bruv, if you don’t let go of her and come get in the damn car, I will remove you myself.” Miles’ voice boomed from behind you, saving you from having to turn your fiancé down yet again.

You couldn’t help but laugh, knowing Miles and Charlotte were tightly wound, the stress getting to them both as if it was their own wedding. You could see that Lewis was finally accepting defeat, rolling his eyes but nodding to Miles, motioning that he would be there in a second.

“It’s fucking crazy that the next time I see you will be at the altar.” Lewis whispers, looking giddy yet anxious.

“Gonna be Mrs. Hamilton tomorrow!” Your voice was quiet as you tried to hold back your squeal of excitement.

You were beyond elated to be marrying your best friend. When he proposed he had made it very clear that you could be engaged as long as you wanted, that nothing needed to be rushed. Only two years later you were here, ready to marry the love of your life in less than twenty four hours.

“Son, I think Miles is going to explode if we don’t all get going.” You hear Anthony laugh from nearby, evidently amused by the frantic state that Miles was in.

“Okay, okay.” Lewis just laughs, glancing at Miles who was now pacing outside of the black town car.

“I love you, get some sleep, need you in tip top shape tomorrow.” You say to Lewis, leaning up to place a family friendly kiss to his lips as you pat his chest

“Yes ma’am, I love you too.” Lewis mumbles against your lips.

Lewis stares at you for a moment, love pouring out of his dark brown eyes before squeezing your waist once more and walking off toward Miles who looks about ready to shove Lewis into the trunk if it means they’ll leave any quicker. Having said your goodbyes to everyone earlier, you make your way over toward Charlotte where she’s waiting by your own matching town car.

“You look much calmer than Miles was.” You laugh as she makes a ridiculous display of opening the door for you.

“Well thankfully I’m in charge of the much easier spouse,” She giggles, following you into the car, “I knew you’d stick to your guns and send him on his way. Miles on the other hand has about ten different plans of ways to just about lock Lewis in his room, pretty sure a straight jacket is on the table.”

You can’t help but laugh, knowing Lewis will more than likely continue to complain throughout the night. You would be lying if you said you truly didn’t want to be next to him for the night, you always sleep better in his arms, but you know one night away from each other won’t kill either of you, you’ve done it countless times before. It’s been rather adorable to you how clingy Lewis had gotten over the past few weeks, it was rather unlike him but you weren’t going to fight it. You know it’s something he does sometimes when he needs to ground himself, and right now his emotions are at an all time high. There had been a few snafus with decorations and such in the weeks leading up to now, each one seemed to wind him that much tighter, the perfectionist in him struggling.

When you arrived in the suite you were exhausted and ready for your pajamas but knew there was no way you were ready to go to sleep just yet. Your mom was waiting for you in the suite when you arrived, already opening a bottle of wine and urging you and Charlotte to come sit with her, a much needed moment of decompression. You’ve been busy all day; last minute preparations, the wedding rehearsal, the rehearsal dinner with all of both of your families. You were drained yet still so full of adrenaline. Being around Lewis all day had helped immensely, always so in tune with each others moods and needs, more than once he had rescued you from a conversation that felt like it had just gone on too long. It also helped that he was bubbling with excitement and energy, even after so long you frequently questioned where he got it, the level rarely faltering.

It wasn’t long before Charlotte was excusing herself to go get ready for bed, leaving you alone with your mom.

“This is all still so crazy to me.” Your moms voice is quiet and kind.

“Which part?” You laugh, taking a sip of your wine.

“All of it!” You mom says, gesturing into the air, “The fact that my baby is getting married, that her wedding is in a castle, that she’s marrying a man that we watched and admired racing for years, the fact that he’s the love of her life, just all of it.”

You couldn’t help but smile at your moms little rant, because it was true, so much of it felt surreal but everything was perfect.

“I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.” You tell her softly, sincerely, taking a moment to think back on everything that has happened over the last three years.

Growing up, Sundays were reserved for F1, you and your mom massive Hamilton fans from the very beginning of his career. When you had told her that you had met him she freaked out nearly as much as you originally had, fangirling in a way you had never thought possible. Your dad thought it was impressive too, making a comment about you never leaving the city to come home and visit them now that you were hanging out with celebrities. When you told your parents that you were dating, your mom was incredibly happy for you but never let her admiration of Lewis get in the way of her daughter's well being, she made sure to check in with you frequently, always worried that his distance and status may be taking a toll on you. Your father on the other hand was less than pleased when he first learned about your relationship, preconceived notions about Lewis’ personal life and persona taking over, less than pleased with the age difference between the two of you. It took a while, but Lewis was able to win him over and you’ve never been more grateful for anything, you were desperate for all the people you loved to get along.

Now you had a fiancé who spoke with your father without you needing to be around, a mother who had befriended Lewis’ mother and stepmother and adored him, and were mere hours away from becoming his wife. Life truly does come at you fast.

“You’re ready?” Your mom asked, breaking the silence that had settled in the room.

“I truly don’t think I’ve ever been so ready for something. I’m nervous of course but there’s no one else that I would rather be with for the rest of my life. I’m sure of that.” Your voice was confident as you spoke, meaning every word.

“I’m so glad you found someone so good for you hun, he truly is a dream. Hell, I wish I had met someone like him when I was your age,” Your mom laughed, sending you a wink, “don’t tell your dad I said that.”

“Secrets safe with me,” You giggled back, “but I don’t think there’s another one of him.”

“Not that I’ve ever seen.” Your mom shrugged, the soft smile never leaving her face.

You can’t help but giggle at the conversation you're having with your mother. You’ve never been one to be sappy but the emotions boiling inside of you leading up to your big day are sending you over the edge, truly letting all the cliche thoughts you have about Lewis come to the forefront.

“You, my dear, need to get to bed. You have a long day ahead of you and need to be well rested for your night.” Your mom winked making you groan through a laugh.

“Mom!” You buried your head in your hands.

You and your mom have always been open with each other about every aspect of your life but you didn’t need to hear her joke about you consummating your marriage.

“But truly, you should try to get some sleep.” She laughed at your embarrassment, trying and failing to come off seriously.

“You’re right, I’ll try.” You say, rolling your eyes as you finish off the last of the wine in your glass

[lasaudade]

𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘, 𝖺 '𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖼. (𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾)

𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚  𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 :  Suffering several losses and ongoing, world-renowned tennis champion, Art Donaldson, is beginning to lose hope. After unexpectedly crossing paths with a familiar-looking journalist, Art realizes there could be more at stake than just his career. Will he leave the world he knew behind, or give the game one more shot?

𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 : art donaldson x (f) sports journalist!reader.

𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : (𝟷𝟾+), second chance romance, angst, fluff, slow-burn.

𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 444.

𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝/𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 :  none.

𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚊 / 𝚗 : Hi, and welcome to my first fanfiction in 10 years! I've written this prologue for now as I write future chapters during my free time. I hope you guys enjoy this story, and I hope Challengers continues to receive the bountiful amounts of love it has been since its release.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ    . . .

“I don’t want to do this. I can’t.”

“Should’ve decided that before you became a world championship player.”

The shuddering breath that leaves his nostrils narrowly frees the anxiety coursing through his veins like a racetrack, the dizzying walk down a familiar feeling corridor more nauseating than the last. Art practiced, hard, and to see that it was all for nothing felt like a slap to the face, a rude awakening for a man who had been yearning for the younger version of himself; fresh-faced and ready to take on Stanford— then, the world. What a fucking joke.

He winces instantly as the conference room doors yawn open, dazzling flashes from the multitude of various press outlets waving their cameras in his face, the flurry begging for him to answer trampled questions over the next. He can’t imagine how exhausted he must look, drenched in sweat.

The anticipatory looks of reporters and bloggers, ready to barrage him with inquiries of his ongoing defeats, his future plans to ensure a win: He hated it. He wanted nothing more but to retreat to his hotel room in peace and quiet to reflect on what he could have done better, what he did so wrong. With every step toward the press table, his footing grew heavier than the last, that awful sensation in the pit of his stomach settling, worsening once he sat down.

A mic is placed on him by an assistant, and a reporter emerges amid the sea of people that grow calm. His blue, tired eyes meet theirs.

“Mr. Donaldson.”

“Hi.”

The reporter clears their throat. “I... can only assume this wasn't the result you'd be hoping for— none of us had. I mean, months and months of agonizingly hard training regimens and diets to stick to... I can't fathom how disappointed you must be feeling right now,” 

 A long pause.

“…Why don’t we just start with something simple: What exactly happened out there, today?”

Amongst the quiet whispers and shutter clicks that flash from cameras that stun him, Art Donaldson, the acclaimed savior of tennis is utterly silent; frozen. 

“... Art?”

“...”

He doesn’t utter a word, he doesn't have any to explain why he continued to be a disappointment to not only himself, but to everyone around him. His trainers, his media team, his fans... himself. The deafening loud ringing in his ears finally falls silent when his wings are clipped and he falls back down to earth. Despite it all, the waves of anguish, the disappointment, the embarrassment he feels for those around him... he smiles, glassy-eyed and defeated for the tabloids to see in all his pitiful glory.

“What happened?”

[haroldthehuckleberry]

Step-Son MPreg

CW- mpreg, sex, language, Step-Son X Step-Dad storyline

I always fancied my step-dad since i met him i thought he was hot, hes a classic himbo, hes tall, muscly, blonde and stupid as can be.

I never knew if he was purposefully flirting with me of was just too stupid to understand it was wrong, but it being wrong made me so horny, id often wank off after he’d compare our hand sizes, snuggle up to me or even bend over to empty the dishwasher, anything and everything he did turned me on so hard! he always wore clothes that left nothing to the imagination, short-shorts, crop-tops or no tops! My actual dad loved this about him and it made me so jealous seeing them cuddle and kiss and then one day… my dad went on a business trip. it was now or never.

i came downstairs in my dressing-gown and boxers showing off my abs and mediocre pecs i walked into the living room to my step-dad half asleep on the couch only in his briefs and white running socks, sweating and scratching his perfect body when he saw me he woke up a little and pushed a finger into his underwear suggestively “oh… hey man” he said in a gruff half awake voice “h-hey” i stammered taken aback by how horny he already seemed my cock visibly swelled in my already tight boxers. he glanced down to it quickly and blushed “come here pal i have something to show you” he said gesturing for me to walk over- i follow his orders and sit next to him, he places his hand on the back of my head and pulls me in for a deep long kiss. i rest my hand on his groin and feel his cock twitch and harden through his pants i then slowly kiss his neck, then his chest, then his abs until his beautiful totem-pole of a cock is in-front of my face. i confidently slip it all into my throat in one go and he lets out a little moan.

i suck him off for what feels like an hour before he pulls me up by my armpits and spins me around, he lifts my dressing gown up and squeezes my ass before bending me over the couch as he teases my underwear down making my cock twitch due to the prolonged friction, he then rubs the head of his penis along the outside of my un-used hole while i beg for his cock i then moan loudly as he slides it all in at once. he grabs the hair on the back of my head and holds my cock in the other one of his massive veiny hands his expert technique instantly turns me into a worthless hole only purpose is to please him, after a few hours of fucking and cumming we fall asleep on the couch naked together.

after a few more days of constant fucking, sucking and cumming my real dad comes home and we have to start being discrete, doing it in one of our cars or while hes away or even just quietly under the kitchen table, the closer he is, the hotter we find it.

after months of this i notice a small ball in the centre of my stomach while getting dressed i think nothing of it and carry on and on until its too obvious to hide under baggy clothes, i tell people im just bulking cause i want to build mass, i wanted to believe it but me and my step dad knew it was more.

his cum must be super-human i quickly became the biggest pregnant person id ever seen i stuck to my story but less and less people believed it that was when my dad confronted me “hey buddy!” he said putting his head around my door into my room as i lay weighted down by my planet-belly, “ive noticed that your clearly pregnant” i try to sit up and defend myself but it takes me far to long to even start bending my mid-section “you dont need to deny it i know what it looks like-you where one hell of a baby! anyway i was just wondering who the daddy was and if hes in the picture” i knew he was asking because my other dad was never in the picture “well erm he kind of is” i finally admit rubbing my tight taught skin “its m-my step dad” i say defeated. “no fucking way!” my dad says more surprised than angry he finally steps fully in my room without a shirt on revealing his own pretty-large pregnant belly…

[f1amboyant]

Babe you didn’t even have to mention it.

EXPLAIN THIS CARCAR AU

(Please)

Hi, babe 🧡 I should have known this one would interest you 🤭

Okay, okay, let me explain this TP!Carlos x driver!Oscar 🧡 (it's driving me absolutely crazy, btw)

So. Somewhere along the timeline, Carlos stops racing and gets into engineering and he is damn good at it. He definitely gots the brain for it and if he can't race (because he's too soft on the track), he definitely can get behind the scenes. He is so goddamn good at it that he becomes the youngest team principal at McLaren. He is so so very good but also, he gets into that position at the worst moment. The team is at its lowest, they have to start over basically. Also, all eyes are on him because no one truly believes he can do a good job (he is so young) and does he really deserve to be there (maybe his dad bought that job for him). So there's a loooooooot of pressure but Carlos keeps his head down and does his job and he is good.

And then comes Oscar. Rookie, extra talented Oscar. Carlos was the one who wanted to recruit him. And here he is. And they... They clash (they collide). They are both extremely hard working and very talented but they don't seem to agree on anything. Oscar isn't afraid to speak his mind when he thinks Carlos is wrong, and vice versa. And people around (in the team, in the paddock, in the media) thinks they are going implode, that something bad is going to happen, that they are going to ruin all the efforts from the team to go back on top. Except. Except they actually work extremely well together. They clash and they bite, but they actually push each other to do better. They catch mistakes for the other that others around never realize. And so it's very tense but it actually works.

Oscar quickly develops a huge crush on Carlos (because that man is too handsome and Oscar has eyes, he's not blind, thank you very much). And he could turn shy, or flirty or something with Carlos but no. He resents that man for being too beautiful and to give him thoughts. How dare he! He can't keep thinking about him but he's not gonna do anything. That's his boss!

Carlos isn't doing much better. He probably has a competency kink. And well. Oscar is very very competent. So yeah, he would very quickly fall for him too. But there's already so much pressure on his shoulders, he's not gonna add "dating an employee" to that.

So mutual pining. Threat of forbidden relationship. All that.

One bad bad race weekend (thanks @curiousthyme for the wonderful idea), Oscar is defeated and frustrated and refusing to talk to anyone and especially to Carlos. Carlos calls him into his office to talk but Oscar refuses to talk about it. "You could do better things with your mouth," he taunts. And Carlos is so so tempted, but no. Nothing is going to happen. And Oscar is angry, it's not real, he doesn't really want it, right?

After that incident, Carlos looks even more at Oscar, looking for clues that maybe, just maybe, Oscar wants this too. And maybe they could... But no. Even if they both want it, this is not something that can happen.

Until they win. They win!! Carlos gets on the podium with Oscar, drenching him in champagne. Smiling, hugging, screaming their joy because they fucking won! And at the after party, drunk and delirious with joy from the win, Carlos kisses Oscar. And Oscar kisses him back. Bites him. They fall into bed together. They don't care anymore.

They're gonna care very much the morning after, when it's all gonna down on them. What they've done. Angst! Pining! All that jazz 🫠

What's gonna happen next, I'm still gonna have to think about it 🤭

But yeah. This is my carcar au idea 🧡

[5iyoomi]

3H Leaders With an Overworked S/O

characters: Dimitri, Edelgard, Claude

warnings: none! just fluff

A/N: this kinda bled into an idea I had for them with an insomniac reader so these are sort of a mix of the two things! written for them pre-timeskip and with a gn reader (with one use of dear, darling & sweetheart, but otherwise nothing pointing towards a specific gender). I haven't written for fe3h in forever hopefully they aren't too ooc

Word Count: 1,770

‎

Dimitri

Like you, he's probably overworked as well

Being a royal and a leader has its merits, yes, even though he doesn't really like all the formalities that come with it, but that doesn't mean it's always easy

He's used to pushing through it, protecting his people and doing anything if it gets pushed onto him. That's his role, after all, and if he can take the pressure off of others then he'll gladly accept it

With you, though, he understands that's not the kind of advice you need. It's not uncommon for him to find you in the Monastery's Library hours after everyone had gone to sleep for the night, hunched over one of the large, elegant tables with stacks of papers and notebooks splayed out around you

He'll sit down with you when he catches the single, dim light on in the otherwise dark room, waving off your questions of how he knew you'd be there as 'just a feeling'

He's realistic, helping you with your workload even if you insist otherwise, that you need to get it done yourself before your deadlines hit. But he'll also hold you to it if you mutter out a 'just one more', his eyes looking between you and the clock mounted on the wall

"Here should be a good stopping point for now, don't you think? You've already finished most of what you needed to get done," Dimitri says with a soft smile, setting a piece of paper into a stack that you'd deemed the 'completed' section.

You'd been there long enough that he had time to go brew the both of you some chamomile tea, hoping the fragrance and sweet notes would help lower your stress. It seemed to be working, your anxiety lessening as you took small sips and noted the fact that you'd at least gotten the bigger, more important things out of the way.

"But-" you start, tapping your pencil against your head in thought, but your words get cut off with a yawn. "There's only a few more left, wouldn't it be better to just finish them?"

Dimitri shakes his head, reaching over to hold his hand out for you. You take it after a moment, interlocking your fingers and sighing when he gives your hand a squeeze. "They aren't due for another few weeks, right? They can wait until morning, you should really get some rest, dear."

You want to protest, tell him it's not even that late, but you've already thrown out every excuse you can think of to get him to not drag you to bed. He wasn't obligated to do any of this for you, and you knew these nights were something that ate into time that he could be using to get some much-needed sleep. So you finally, albeit hesitantly, give in, your teacup long empty and shoulders drooping in defeat. "I guess so-"

The blonde brightens at that, his thumb stroking over your own with a gentleness you'd grown weak to. It was hard to fight him when ocean blue eyes gazed into yours, his love for you obvious in the simple ways he showed his care. "If it helps, you can stay in my room for tonight. I'm sure one night won't hurt."

You nod, sparing a glance at the once disorganized mess of pages and deciding that you'd take his word for it. "I'd like that."

Edelgard

Similar to Dimitri, she's always dealt with things by trooping through them. As a more private person and a leader, she rarely ever lets appearances fall, so you're one of the few people that's seen what she can be like behind closed doors

Thus, her first instinct when she sees you nodding off in class is to gently nudge you awake and tell you to get to bed earlier. It might sound a bit harsh, but she only wants the best for you, and she thinks to what might happen if you were to fall asleep like that in the middle of a battle, which doesn't exactly help either of you (dramatic much?)

But when you tell her it's because you're swamped with work, trying to keep up with everything while simultaneously doing extra for people that, in her words, couldn't take the hint that you were busy, she gets upset

Not at you, but more at herself for not noticing the signs sooner when you're her partner of all things, and for making a comment that may have come off as insensitive. She still struggles with how to deal with these things, especially when it comes to you, emotionally or otherwise, so there's a chance she'll just ask you exactly what you need from her

She's a bit more lenient when it comes down to you staying up since she tends to do the same, but she'll still suggest taking a day off at one point

She'll take you to the greenhouse if you're up to it so that you aren't cooped up in your room all night with the idea that a change of scenery might help you avoid burning out or getting too frustrated

The Monastery was so quiet at night, most of the student body and staff already long asleep or busy with their own things. You only see a few people as you step outside, fingers interlocked with Edelgard's and a small crease in your brow from looking over the same words for hours.

You'd always thought it was beautiful, but lately you had no time to appreciate it, what with assignment after assignment piling up on you, so it was nice to get out for a while, even if the only things that awaited you when you got back were unfinished documents and half-filled in pages.

Scribbled notes that you took when you could hardly keep your eyes open. A breath of fresh air was almost enough to make you forget why you've been so stressed out. Almost.

The greenhouse was no different, the place always well-kept due to the student's tireless work. It made you feel a bit better, walking side by side with Edelgard as you're greeted by greenery and the like.

Pink and purple flowers bloom in one corner, slowly but surely growing underneath the bright moon visible through the glass, while seeds you assume to be newly planted sit beneath fresh soil on the other.

"Look at this one, it's the same color as your eyes." Edelgard says, grabbing your attention. You turn towards her in time for her to slip a flower behind your ear, her thumb brushing over your skin with a thoughtful grin. "It's good to get out, isn't it? That's why we're out here, so you shouldn't worry so much, darling."

You smile, feeling your cheeks and body start to warm. She was so effortlessly sweet sometimes; you think it's going to be the death of you one of these days. "Yeah, you have a point there."

Claude

He probably notices before you even say anything or notice you're feeling off yourself lol

He's an observant character, but it does still surprise you when he asks you if something's wrong out of the blue

"Huh? No, I'm alright, just a bit tired."

He sees right through it, but he doesn't wanna push you, so he'll just keep an eye on you for a while, making sure that you aren't overdoing it or setting aside your basic needs

If he sees that you are, he'll make it a point to put extra food on his plate for you. He'll come knocking on your dorm door every now and again to check on you, sliding a snack or drink your way and staying if you let him, though he mostly distracts you

It'd be hypocritical of him to tell you to take it easy when he's the same way, so he won't exactly tell you what to do, but he'll find a way to get you away from your work if he notices it's causing you too much trouble. He'll also have a polite word with your professor, maybe tell them that you're sick and need a few days off if he thinks it's bad enough

You might huff at him and say that that wasn't necessary, but he'll insist it was

It's another one of those nights, times when Claude comes knocking with another excuse at the ready for why he's there. You know why, it's become obvious over the last few weeks that it's his backwards way of telling you that he cares. He'll never scold you for your habits, but you know exactly what he wants to say even if he doesn't say it.

"Hey, wanna dance with me?" Claude asks after a comfortable silence had grown like a veil over the both of you. He'd made himself very comfortable on your bed, but you never actually minded. It was endearing in a way, really, even if you had to turn him down when you finish writing out a sentence, looking up at him from your desk.

"I'm busy, Claude, you know that."

"Come now, you can hardly even focus. Just a few minutes, promise." He gives you his signature smile, one that's saved for you but still equally mischievous as all of his other ones. He holds out his pinkie finger, chuckling at your muttered seriously? But he doesn't see you saying no. After a few moments of hesitation, you stand up, taking his finger in yours and shaking.

"Fine, but only a few minutes. I'm serious." You say, yelping when he stands up abruptly, pulling you up with him and taking your hands in his. He kisses your knuckles oh so softly, a glint in his eyes that you realize far too late that you shouldn't trust, but he's already got you right where he wants you, and he doesn't plan on letting go.

"I know, I know. I won't take up too much of your time, sweetheart." He hums.

It isn't just a few minutes, song after song playing on the record as you danced into the night. But you can't find it in yourself to be mad. Not when he twirls you around so carefully, a hand placed on the small of your back with your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders.

And certainly not when he coaxes you to bed, not even bringing up the thesis you had to finish since all of your attention was on him now. He presses a kiss to your forehead, wishing you sweet dreams, and you fall asleep in a matter of seconds with him by your side.

[mixiury]

Here with you — Wanderer x GN! Reader

Summary: After a long walk with Wanderer, you ended up exhausted, taking a small nap with your companion in the middle of the forest.

A/N: I corrected some typos I noticed after reading this again. I am dyslexic and English isn't my first language so I'm sorry if there is still some. Please feel free to point them out!

"Come here, lie with me."

"Why would I? To get my clothes dirty like yours? No thanks." Wanderer answered to your request almost instantly, showing little interest in changing his mind.

Both of you have been walking for hours now, enjoying the cool breeze that the trees of the Sumeru forest release.

It's hard to keep track of time in a place like this, especially when the silence and calm stretches out in its entirety and all you can hear is the soft melody of the birds with the snapping grass and leaves you are stepping on the ground while you walk.

But even though your hiking companion doesn't need to take breaks and the beautiful views of the landscapes along the way help in motivating you to continue exploring, you soon end up finding your feet and legs demanding you to rest, lying down on a small and comfortable hill, while Wanderer reluctantly agrees to wait for you a few minutes.

"Are you sure you don't want to join me? The sun is nice." You know what his response is going to be, but you keep insisting anyways, hoping that some miracle will happen that would make him change his mind and rest alongside you. However, as was from being expected, his head just turned away, ignoring your request with the same stubborness that characterizes him.

Defeated, you find solace in the warm sunlight and fresh grass you lie on, slowly imbuing yourself in its trap as your eyelids fight to stay open.

It is not until he notices how quiet you have become that Wanderer's gaze finally returned to your sleeping figure, noticing each deep breath you take as your chest rises and falls steadily, with nothing to interrupt you from falling into your calm, soft slumber.

It's annoying how you allow to put yourself in such a comfortable state in the middle of nowhere. As if, in this precise moment, nothing else mattered.

It seems like you don't know how easy of a target you are right now, not worrying about your surroundings and all the dangers that are around you. It only takes a few seconds to end a human's life and it's much easier when you're in such a vulnerable and peaceful state that you wouldn't even be able to react before you feel the pain of your aggressor hurting you.

And yet, the mere thought of it makes him feel sick and jealous of you at the same time. How can you live your life so carelessly? Is it because you don't have any self-prevention instincts inside that empty brain of yours? Or are you just so naive that, even knowing how he can easily leave you to your own devices, you still trust him enough to allow yourself to be in this position?

Knowing you will probably never tell him, he decides to search the answer by himself, quietly approaching you and laying down next to you, hoping that the sound of the grass rustling next to you won't wake you up or interrupt your dreams as he watches you in complete silence.

And it's only now, after he finally gave into your request, that he understood what you were talking about.

The faint rays of the sun really feel like a bliss the moment they caress your face, intense enough to embrace you with their warmth but not to the point of burning you. Contrasting with the cloudy and gloomy Inazuma mornings he had grown used to.

It has been so long since he felt this warmth and calmness, still staring at you steadily and letting himself enjoy the peaceful nature of the moment.

It feels illegal that him, out of all people, could experience an instance like this. He, whom from the day of his creation the only birthright that has been given to him was an eternity of grievance, shame and solitude, simply lying on the grass without any other concern but you.

He doesn't understand it but he wants to. Your presence itself has already helped him understand a hint of your normalicy, something that he had spent decades chasing and longing for but was never able to hold for long enough to call it his. And yet, he lets himself fall into your trap and comfort, finally taking a break from all the thoughts that have been stuck in his mind as he simply rests by your side.

[avonne-writes]

Night Shadows

Again, I don't know what's up with me, I was suddenly inspired... This is in the same verse as this drabble - Gale has severe PTSD after the war.

The thin summer blanket falls over Bucky's frame like a veil, in soft folds. He lies still in his and Gale's bed and imagines he’s one of those timeless marble sculptures that look like people frozen in motion, with their clothes still ruffled by the breeze. A part of him longs for that oblivion, but a prickling awareness pulls him further away from sleep. The space on his left, where warmth and peace should press up against him, is as cold as the stone in Bucky's fading dream.

He cracks his eyes open to the shroud of the night and traces the silhouettes drawn by the pale moonlight that slips in through the curtains. Nothing lives and breathes around him, nothing moves. It’s only empty space.

Half-asleep, fear is a shock, a bucket of cold water after a bad evening spent drinking. He wrestles his marble bindings off and slips out of bed. His bare feet pad on thick carpet, then cool floor. His elbow brushes a doorframe a touch too hard, and the scrape of it draws a hiss, but nothing whispers back in the dead silence.

"Buck?" He calls out in that low, groggy voice that always gets him a fond smile in the morning. "You okay?"

There's no reply, but the living room gapes danger with its dark and empty space, and Bucky's heart kicks up its frantic beats. He looks around, squints, reaches for the lightswitch, but then he spots it - a pair of feet behind the couch.

He runs before the flood of dread could even materialize as a thought - he doesn’t think that Gale could be hurt or dead, he feels it. In his rush, he knocks into the coffee table that Gale apparently moved into the way, but he ignores the blooming pain and throws himself right down on the floor to grab the body lying lifeless in cold, wet liquid.

"Gale!" He exclaims. His fear drums so loud in his ears that he barely hears the gasp of surprise he draws, but the scrambling hands he does feel, as they scratch and grip at his shoulders in blind, animal panic.

"It's me. It’s me." He shifts his hold from Gale’s arms to his wrists and holds them away from the wounded skin of his neck until Gale calms and goes limp.

"Jesus Christ." Bucky breathes out in tired relief and pulls those hands to his chest, keeps them pressed there with his left while he cups Gale’s cheek with his right. "You scared me."

When Gale doesn’t reply, Bucky's heart clenches in a different kind of worry - the gentle, bittersweet kind that creeps around your heart like an embrace. It’s the worry of familiarity, the pain that comes from knowing what's coming and yet being powerless to do anything but watch how much damage the crash of a wave does against the shore.

"Don’t do this to me, doll. Not again." The plea slips out of his mouth quietly. It feels like defeat.

Gale doesn’t hear it.

"They’re out there." He whispers. His voice never sounded like this during the war, not even when they were on that train of death or when they plotted their escape - this voice knows neither reason, nor reality. "They’re coming."

Bucky shifts his grip on Gale’s hands, holding them both between his chest and his palm, and slides the other hand down Gale’s body to feel around for injuries. Wetness seeps into his pajamas from the puddle he’s kneeling in. It's dripping from Gale’s body, but it's not blood. Thank God, thank every saint for that. It’s ice cold water, and Gale is sopping wet with it.

"No one's coming." Bucky tries to soothe Gale. He wishes he spared that fraction of a second he would have needed to turn on the lights, because in the darkness, he can’t see Gale’s expression, just the white flash of his gaze sometimes as he stares at Bucky in wide-eyed horror.

"Shhh." Gale shushes him. "Lie down or they'll notice you." Gale's breathing speeds up to an unnatural, panicked rhythm, then goes slow so suddenly that it gives Bucky whiplash.

"Must join them to make it. Must join them." He mutters under his breath. It doesn't sound like he knows he’s speaking.

Bucky knows what he's doing. He put it together from the fragments Gale gave him during his episodes - he's on the run from the march, lying in a ditch among the dead to avoid being noticed by the German troops passing through the forest. In his right mind, Gale barely told him anything but the plain facts of what happened. Filth and rotting corpses only a few feet away from the retreating men. I made it out, it doesn't matter, John, he said that one time Bucky brought it up. But if something wakes him up wrong at night, it’s either this moment he loses his sanity to, or the darkest days of their captivity.

Usually, Bucky tries to wake him from it. He has tried it gently and rougher too, but it's always a tough wall to break, and he’s tired. Too tired to be the voice of reality. What if it helps more to play along?

He keeps stroking Gale's face and neck but lies down next to him just like Gale urges him to in half-finished sentences. The cold water drenches him in discomfort, but he pays it no notice, only Gale's laboured breathing.

"Quick, quick." Gale says, voice shaking now, and he pulls his hands out of Bucky's grip to strip his wet shirt. He lays it on Bucky’s stomach, then goes still. "It rained, if you're dry, they’ll see it."

That explains it, Bucky thinks as they lie together on the floor. Safe in their home, but hiding from the demons in Gale's mind. Bucky wonders if Gale went to the bathroom to splash water on his face but ended up here instead. He wonders if he didn’t switch on the light because he didn’t want to wake Bucky and if that's what got him confused. It happened before. And yet, Gale continues to try being considerate.

It breaks Bucky's heart.

He waits a few seconds, counts to ten in his head, then opens his mouth to whisper, "I think they’re gone now."

With his hand gripping Bucky's, Gale stops breathing for a moment, as if listening for the sound of footsteps, but, of course, there's nothing. When Gale believes it too, his body relaxes, and he sits up. He pulls his knees up, puts his elbows on them, then buries his face in his hands.

Bucky discards the wet shirt and moves behind Gale to hug him. He wraps his arms around Gale’s shivering torso and closes his eyes against the memories it brings up, the cold and the stalag. He pulls Gale back into his chest. A long kiss to Gale’s bare shoulder, then a soothing path of them up, better than any feeble word he’d try to say. Words he did say in the past, grains of sand in the wind.

It's only when Gale goes boneless and tries to crumple forward that he knows it's over, and what he says would be heard.

"It's okay. You're okay." He kisses Gale's temple, willing them both to believe it. The seconds tick by like a quiet metronome. They fly past, into the horizon of minutes, but the night feels so vast that it's as if they're floating in nothing.

"This floor needed mopping anyway." Bucky says in a lighter tone once he thinks that Gale’s ready for it.

Gale bursts into tears.

As always, it’s devastating. Bucky had been through pain and loss and hell with him, and Gale never once shed a tear. But since they returned, like taking a tourniquet off a wounded vein, the missing pressure to stay strong left him torn open and bleeding. Nothing hurts more than not being able to make it better. Just hoping for time to heal what Bucky can’t.

"I'm sorry." Gale's voice is like a ghost passing through the house. It stabs Bucky all the same.

"Don’t worry about it, Buck. You know me. Not the first time I sat in a puddle, hoping to get someone into bed with me." He tightens his arms as he says it, rocking Gale, but he feels the tremors of silent crying continue to run through Gale's body. "I love you."

A sob escapes Gale before he could clamp down on it. He forces himself to go still when it passes, then drops his hands and sniffles. "Does that line tend to work?"

The smile on Bucky’s lips is bittersweet. "Dunno, doll, you tell me. Never used it before."

Gale breathes in deep, then lets it out. Little by little, his body starts to settle down again. The shaking ceases. "I may need to hear it again." He swallows against his remaining tears, then leans his head against Bucky's. "To make sure."

Bucky hums. "Let me try my luck in a hot bath. For the acoustics."

That finally earns him a small, wet laugh. "Sure, Bucky."

Germany's frozen forests are never farther away than in the steamy warmth of their bathroom, in each other's embrace.

[addicsvt]

Again and Again

pairing - est!relationship jun x reader genre - fluff w a bit of angst word count - 358 warnings - just reader being exhausted / workplace problems synopsis - It's the small things he does. a/n - hbd to my pookie wookie!!!! my dearest darling <3

You and Jun are lying on the couch, you don't really pay attention to the show that is currently playing on the tv. Jun doesn't too, he never does because he's too busy looking at you. And its when you meet his eyes that he tries to not-so-subtly direct his gaze back to the TV screen. You smile at his antics.

After a few hours, you end up subconsciously-ing tracing random figures into his bicep and he doesn't pay that much mind until he does.

"Honey you just traced "help" onto my arm," he jokes only to be met with your unfocused expression. Your clearly thinking about something, something that is distracting you from him.

"Oh? It's nothing..." you snap back into reality before your mind can wander again.

"You sure? You can always tell me anything." He questions genuinely trying to prod at your problem without being too pushy. He knew that you tended to close yourself off whenever problems arised.

"I.. it's just, work has been so hard junnie." You complain letting out a defeated sigh. It's in that sigh that he hears your pure unfiltered exhaustion, you almost fooled him with how well you were hiding it these past weeks.

He looks at you with a genuine expression. "Mind telling me what happened during work?"

"It's my boss, he's asking me to do unpaid over time. Company's low on staff or some-" You mumble before he shushes you, a finger now resting on your lips.

"Did you try talking to him about how unfair it is? I mean it's his fault for not having enough money to hire more people," He begins slowly but he stops after seeing your tired expression.

"Okay okay, I'll talk to your boss about it, is that better?" He suggests before you shut him down instantly with an almost-aggressive head shake.

"Fine fine, I'll write you an email for you to send to him. No physical contact, is that okay?" He confirms with you, before you give him a hesitant nod of your head.

It's that small action that makes you fall in love with your boyfriend again and again.

ADDICSVT 2024

[uhhhitsme]

thinking so hard about agent curt mega i sort of am losing my shit because he just cares so much. about saving the world. about other people. about being the saviour he thought he was always meant to be. about owen. and how throughout the show we see curt struggle so much trying reckon with all that feeling, that vulnerability, and ultimately that grief. and his humanity.

right from the moment the curtains part, and we meet curt, we are greeted by the the thing that defines most of curt's personhood---his cool, cocky persona as a spy. as a hero, in his eyes---throwing himself into the heat of action to defeat the bad guys, "overthrow" an evil power, "save the world again." he and owen handle bombs and murder men like its nothing, grinning as they fight guards and are pursued by enemy agents. they're the definition of confident, competent, strong. the best in the field. its the thing he takes most pride in, boasting about his success and skill, actively making things harder for himself and owen just for the fun of it. he presents himself entirely as this one dimensional character---the good guy. the one who gets things done, who saves the world, the brave, daring hero of this story that you trust to do the right thing.

and then owen falls. and in one, full swoop, that image---that thing that curt prides so much of himself on---is blown to bits. because owen falls, and its his fault, and seeing the body of his partner laying broken on the ground is too much for him to bear, so he runs. he isn't brave. he isn't selfless. in the one moment that it really, truly mattered, he could not save the man he loved. he could not do the right thing. he wasnt the person that he had so desperately tried to be. and i think that haunted him, afterwards---that moment of selfishness, that moment where he was a coward. he ran and left his partner behind to save his own skin, because he was afraid, and he didnt know what to do. because at the end of the day, he's not just a tool for his government or this flawless, incredible spy. he's human, and he made irredeemable mistakes, and theres nothing he can do to fix it.

so when he comes back to spying, when he gets that second chance to try again---he wants to escape his humanity entirely. he refuses to acknowledge his fear, refuses to let go of what is ultimately a hopeless mission, is cocky and brash and everything he thinks a spy needs to be. he can't let himself feel, can't let himself acknowledge his emotion, cant let him confront how much he cares, because thats what made him kill owen. he can't live with being anything other than that untouchable hero he has always tried to be. at his core, he wants, desperately, to be good. to be the man that the world looks up to, righteous and fearless and the protector you can rely on, the american hero---not the deeply flawed, deeply human gay man he is, who would be shunned and criminalized if anyone knew. he needs to be good, to mean something, so much that he cannot bear trying to be anyone else.

and so he tries, and tries, and tries. and it ends with a bullet in the brain of the man he loves, and a mission he was always doomed to never complete, and the failure of not being the person he never could've been in the first place. he cared. so much that it made him unravel.

[small-sinclair]

Whumptober 11: Seeing Double

Gambit, Rogue, and Kurt x mute human!reader Tw: body horror, nightmare, drowning, shock collar

Loneliness Part 2 of Whumptober Day 8

Back in your little shop of flowers and gifts, you were picking out a vase to use for an order. The pink vase was too light of a color, and the plain green one was too boring. Overhead, music played softly as you stood looking between the two vases. You didn’t have a thought in the world about what was happening outside. You didn’t hear the X-Men fighting another mutant. You didn’t hear screams of terror as people ran away from the fight. Your thoughts were so focused on the vases, too worried about what would go with the order. The thing that brought you back was the sound of your window shattering and your wooden door exploding into splinters. You let out a scratchy scream, your voice shattering and rough, as you turned away from the blast and landed on the floor.

Under you, the floor opened up and you fell into the darkness below. You kept falling and falling, your hands reaching above you to try and catch something even though there was nothing. Your back hits cold, dead ink and you began to sink. You waved your arms around as thick, black smoke filled your lung, swirling around you like birds on a line. As your eeyes looked wildly around, looking for some type of help, you found what looked like a dead willow tree.

Hanging from the branches by fishing line and poison ivy, the three mutants were strung. Rogue’s hands hung above her as her ears bleed. She looked defeated and torn by something from the murky ink abyss. Gold blood dripped from the side of head, dripping down her skin on and her uniform. Next to her was the Cajun, Gambit, and his eyes were clawed out, leaving behind a bloody mess. He had ivy wrapped around his throat and growing from his lips, and you could hear him as he chocked at the poison in his throat. He was thriving in pain as muffled screams echoed from his caved in chest. Lastly was the blue demon called Nightcrawler, and his mouth was missing. Growing in its place were bright white lilies and morning glories. From his blue skin, flowers bloomed over him as if he was part of the earth itself, as if he was being swallowed whole.

With all your strength, you tried to swim towards them but didn’t move. The ink around you was quickly claiming you, calling you into the loneliness and forgotten. The coldness around you began to make you freeze, and the black smoke began to tear you apart. You could feel your body beginning to crystallize and morph into something different, something new. Your eyes began to water and began to cry thick black tears. Fighting against it won’t help you...fighting any more than you are fighting now will only drag you down. You came into this world, and you will leave this world alone. Hands wrapped around your throat and body, sinking you down farther and farther into the darkness below.

Just let it claim you and swirl your mind until you believe that there isn’t anything left of your body, mind, and soul.

***********************

Gambit woke up to your fist landing on his chest plate hard and fast. Without thinking, his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you still. “It’s alright, it’s alright, petit,” he hummed low enough for you to hear. “Shh...just a dream. Just having a nightmare.”

He let himself to sleep...how could he allow himself to do that?

Rogue’s head lift and she wiped away the sleepiness from her eyes. “What...?” She yawned silently and let her eyes adjust. When she saw you thrashing, she moved quickly to hold your feet down. “Calm down! You’re like a fish on a hook, darlin’!”

With her voice, Kurt’s burning yellow eyes snapped open and his powers tried to move him away from the danger, but the collar around him ended up shocking him. His breath hitched and moved away from Gambit’s shoulder, laying on his side, as the shock ripped through his body painfully. His body tensed and his back arched when he felt the electric waves shake his bones, giving him a burst of uncontrollable energy in his core.

“Kurt!” Remy’s voice yelled, concern and fear growing in his eyes.

He breathed heavily through his fangs as drool dripped from his lips onto the floor under him. Shakingly, he lifted his head as he laid on his back. “Ich gut. Ich gut,” he breathed, his eyes watering slightly. “Is the human alright?”

Gambit didn’t had time to answer as you let out a rough and scratchy scream. You pushed away from him and fell backwards into Rogue’s arms. She held you closed and hushed you gently as you sobbed in her arms. She covered your head and held your side as you cried into her shoulder.

“It’s alright, sugar,” she reassured. “You ain’t alone. We’re here with ya.”

Gambit helped Kurt up and had him rest against his shoulder again. “You alright, fuzz ball?” Remy kept his voice gentle, trying to hide his growing fear in his eyes.

“I will be,” Nightcrawler breathed, his eyes began closing as he took deep breaths. “I feel sick.”

Gambit closed his eyes as he wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “The first time ain’t easy. Trust me, mon ami.” Then his eyes shifted back to your shaking form and frowned. “Must’ve been one hell of a nightmare, petit.”

Rogue rubbed her hand over your back in slow circles, hushing you gently as she did. Her breathing was even and slow, giving you a chance to match your heartbeat with hers. You felt alone still, unable to talk to them about your dream and express your feeing about it. The dream was enough to shake you, enough to make you feel helpless. You held on to her arms like a vice, steadying your breathing, and your tears slowed until there was nothing.

The ever growing pit in your stomach was only swirling faster.

[catboymoments]

I've been on a bit of a Danganronpa kick lately, and I wanted to share some thoughts I remembered (originally from 2022).

I am having a hard time believing that the whole world outside of Japan also suffered from the same total societal collapse (+ brainwashing?) that Japan fell to. Yes, I can imagine that countries with particularly close ties to Japan could suffer greatly, some perhaps even falling to civil conflict, but I'm not sure if I buy the totality of it, especially in the countries more isolated from the outside world (eg. Cuba), or ones with draconian censorship regimes (eg. China). The developing countries in particular I imagine would be spared most of the brainwashing, instead taking the brunt of the damage from the worldwide economic crisis, which yes it would also end in blood, but -- if I allow myself to be cynical for a moment -- nothing that particularly exceeds the scale of the wars and genocides we've seen there in the late 20th century. Really, the less culturally connected a country is to Japan, the less brainwashed its populace should probably be, given how Japanese Hope's Peak student body is. And, especially in the developed countries, this is probably where the effects of the Tragedy are the lightest, allowing them to gather themselves relatively quickly and act as starting points for rebuilding the world. Which honestly provides interesting story material on its own, as many of these governments could have visions of the post-Tragedy world that conflict with the Future Foundation's and each other's...

This is going to be a direct criticism of the Future Foundation now: of their 14 divisions, none of them are tasked with rebuilding of governments, local and national institutions of power. Almost as if they planned on ruling the world indefinitely after defeating Despair. And the fact that they don't seem to have a plan for handing over power makes me fear for how the world would actually look after their victory at the end of DR3. And when people start demanding a say in how they're governed, how will they respond? Will they respond to these protests like Hope's Peak did to the Parade, and set up another Tragedy as a result? Will they hastily restore status quo ante, with all its systemic failures that allowed Despair to fester and set up a Tragedy reprise, just further down the line than the first option? Because fixing these systemic problems is a work that should be started Day 1 of the Foundation's operations, to have a proper plan that adequately addresses them. And, like I said, they don't seem to have any kind of team dedicated to making such a plan.

I know this is a long ask, but I needed to get all of this off my chest. Thank you for your time, and have a nice day.

I agree with u. DR3 has so many issues

[tuliptired]

Hey! If you don’t have much stuff to write I just had a fun scenario I would like to see.

I’ve had the idea of all the Ghostbusters interacting with an almost friendly ghost.

Like, the reader, is a ghost who haunts the old fire department and, for some reason, the busters can’t get rid of them.

But they aren’t a bad ghost. Do they cause a little mayhem? Yeah, but they don’t harm people.

Maybe everyone is a little weary because, let’s face it, they’ve all been through some stuff and expect a possible negative outcome.

… that’s all! Thanks lovely!

You Don't Hear what I'm Saying (Do You?)

Pairing: Ghostbusters & Ghost!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death

90% sure this gif is from frozen empire but haiiii

Better formatting on Ao3!!

Your last moments were, funnily enough, the foggiest in your memory. You always remember the parade running through the streets for a new mayor, generally just a reason to be jovial for a while. You can remember the rain falling from the sky, sending everyone inside for a minute, and you can remember the firehouse you took refuge in. What you can never recall is why exactly you woke up, presumably weeks later, with a splitting headache and no tangible body.

When you got over the shock over your new form, it was hard to come to terms with dying, to know that you inadvertently left everything behind without ever meaning to. Death always seemed so far away to you, as the thrill of the Progressive Era lingered in the air. It was even harder, to know that you’d never be able to leave the confines of the building you passed in. True, you had all the time in the world to explore, or test out your new abilities as a spirit, but it just made you even sadder, to disturb these hardworking men and be reminded of their livelihoods as they served the city. So you slept, invisible to the world and for as long as you wanted to escape thoughts of hopelessness. 

Ghost-sleep wasn’t the same, though, not nearly as satisfying as sleep when you were flesh and blood. It was more like suspending yourself in a different state of matter for a while- something you would have never understood until you actually felt it. You didn’t want anything to do with anyone anymore, tucking yourself into the farthest and darkest corners and letting yourself stay dormant for years upon years. After a while, you’d be brought back to consciousness by a dull and throbbing pain in your head, forcing you back “awake”. Time had managed to slip your grasp, the firehouse eventually defunct and destitute in only a matter of time, its rundown interior only giving you more motivation to hide away from it all. In the simplest of words: you were in a neverending state of loneliness.

“I’ll be one minute!” Ray called over his shoulder. He went up the steps of the firehouse, until he was at the seldom used third floor. This place needed a good sweep, maybe a dusting, but that could wait. He had something much cooler in mind.

Ray moved a creaky shelf, looking around for a quick second before he did. “Are you here? You can come out now,” he stage-whispered.

You materialized behind him instead, smiling shyly as you peeked out from the shelving. He was so, so lucky. A ghost! Living in his attic! Technically, the attic of his ghost extermination service, but the little details didn’t matter much. 

Not long ago, he was up here to stuff some of Peter’s junk in the tiny bit of storage they had. A chill ran up his spine after dumping it, hair standing up on end. There was no way, right?  He scanned the room silently, not daring to breathe or move too hard or too fast. His hopes rose.

Ray swallowed. “Any ghosts up here, come out so I can see you.” No answer. “...we can play a game.”

Still nothing but the sounds of the air conditioning. His posture dropped in defeat- it was wishful thinking, anyway. Ray turned to leave, before he was willed to spin around. Another chill, one that ran down to his bones, racked him, eyes bulging wide as the figure of an early 20th century spirit appeared before him at will.

You didn’t attack him, or wreck the room. You just stood there, blinking occasionally, looking just as freaked out as he was. You were a ghostbuster, Ray! You’ve seen ghosts!

He snapped out of his stupor. “Oh yeah! The game!” He stared at you for a few more seconds, before scouring the room for something. To be fair, he didn’t really have a plan. Ray just thought it’d be pretty cool to have a ghost friend around- who wasn’t Slimer. And now he’s got one! Maybe. He emerged with a little ball, wondering why the hell four grown men owned one. He set himself up for catch, watching as you hesitantly raised your hands.

It fell right through you. Obviously. 

Since then, through trial and error, you both compiled information about yourself. For one, you couldn’t talk- at least not much. He’d have to look into that, but it could be something you’d just have to relearn. Secondly, your control over physical objects seemed touch and go. You could interact with some things, but not others- and he suspected that it had something to do with the material’s age relative to your own. You could travel freely, fortunate for you and troublesome for him. Ray had a new experiment this time, one he thinks you’d like. 

“You’re from 1902? 1904?” Ray asked, zipping open up a cloth bag that hung around his neck. You put your shoulders up- understandable, you’d been dead for a long time and out of commission for a while. “Well, have you ever had your picture taken?”

He watched as you eyed the Fujifilm in his hands curiously. You shook your head, gazing down at it like it was an object of a folktale. You nearly reached out to touch it, amazement making you forget your current predicament. 

He smiled at your wonder. “Do you want one?”

Ray laughed as you nodded wildly, adjusting the phantom clothes that died along with you. You picked a spot that was freer from clutter- near the lab and sitting area, and tried to channel the portraits of dignitaries and upper class families that you only ever dreamed of being a part of.

With a few quick snaps, the best one printed, and it was only a matter of waiting until it would develop. You were impatient- surprised at how quick it took to manifest but annoyed at the dark square that became clearer at only a snail's pace. 

“You gotta be patient,” he teased you, protecting the delicate film. “You’re just like Egon.” Your expression dropped, and Ray let up slightly. He felt bad, accidently bringing up his friends like this. The friends that you weren’t allowed to meet, otherwise they’d trap you almost immediately. “They’ll come around. Just give me some time,” Ray promised with a small smile.

You nodded, seeming to understand. Ray’s short gasp tore you from your melancholy, showing you the now developed photo between two fingers. “Look at that,” he said softly, grinning as you inspected it. If he was right, it had to have been decades since you had seen your own face.

“Ray!” a voice called from far below, impatient. He clicked his tongue, carefully leaving you with the photo where you could see it without having to move anything. As he reached for the doorknob, the room was shroud in darkness before illuminating again. You stood proudly, if not a bit coy, flicking the electricity on and off with pure physic energy a few more times.

Ray beamed. “Hey! You learned lights!”

Another quiet day. You counted the front door opening and closing twice from your spot upstairs- Winston lets the door drag, you learned, and Ray lets it slam. That left Janine, the woman you always hear at the very front desk, and Egon, the man you’ve seldom heard any noise from. According to Ray, he’s been spending more time in the lab than anything. Peter, the one with short footsteps, typically sleeps during these drags in the day, especially after a long night like the kind they had prior. It felt oddly comfortable, to familiarize yourself with their routines, though you had no idea what they looked like. How much could you learn about someone, when you observe them without eyes?

You could tell how sunny it was outside, growing jealous that they could soak up the warmth of the world while you were stuck at the top floor with very little natural lighting. Ray would understand, right? One quick trip couldn’t hurt. Everyone was too preoccupied with their midday activities, and if they did happen to see you, you’d scramble back to safety and just deny. 

The sliver of light streaming in from the large window in the hallway felt lovely. You feel things differently, when you’re only a soul. There was almost a hypnotic property in the way you were able to bask in the wake of dancing dust, floating along the beam, and you swore your vapors were growing more and more vivid. Thank goodness someone left the drapes open- they’d simply passed through your fingers. Your senses, however, heighten when you’re a ghost. You could tell someone was watching you, and when you turned, it was a resident of the firehouse, disheveled from sleep and pointing one of those vacuum-wand-gun things Ray had tried explaining to you.

Instincts carry you to the safest point of escape. You could hear the man shouting into the vent, probably on the edge of his toes, the presumed image amusing you. 

“You’re in the walls?” He hollered incredulously, voice bouncing off the metal. “Not fair.” When you never answered, he stormed off, short footsteps growing further and further away, before pittering back. “Stay off the second floor. Egon’ll see you.”

Winston had the hood of their vehicle propped open, doubled over into it and covered in dark oil. Ray was in bed, sleeping just like Peter was that one day after loud alarms and wailing sirens called them out to a job late that night. You had paid his snoring form a quick visit, but now you just watched Winston, no meddlesome plan in mind as the large white car intimidated you a tad. He shivered, dirty hands running across the length of goosebumped arms before he went back to work.

“I know you’re there.”

You blinked, slowly becoming visibly as he continued to crank a wrench around the soiled engine. “Ray’s terrible at keeping secrets. And it’s 5 degrees colder in here.”

So much for subtly. You were at least a little disappointed, before he spoke again. “Are you gonna possess me?” You shook your head. “Slime me?” No. “Chase me around?” Probably not.

His defenses dropped as he eyed you up and down, looking as stereotypical as a ghost could in your turn-of-the-century outfit and mystic state. “You’re lucky he has no survival instinct,” he pointed the wrench at you, “it’s like second death in that containment chamber-”

Winston saw you frown, softening. Not very nice, you thought. 

“I’m sorry. Not cool, talking about death with a ghost, right?” You nodded. He wiped his hands on a spare towel. “And you’re stuck downstairs all day?” shaking your head, you pointed upstairs. All the way upstairs.

You started away from the car. What a gaudy thing to drive around in, you thought. You trusted Ray’s judgment, but not on this. Winston must’ve noticed, asking in disbelief, “you’ve never been in a car?”

You rolled your eyes defensively, and he just chuckled at you. Of course you’d been in a car! Just- not giant white hearses with junky gear strapped to it. Winston only laughed harder, holding the door open for you. “Wanna see this one?”

You swallowed- or, you would, if you still produced saliva. Careful to not fall through and onto the ground, you hesitantly lowered yourself into the seat, jumping slightly as he suddenly turned on the engine. “How is it?” You didn’t answer as he took his spot on the driver's side, and when he looked over, you held out the molecules of your hand, bouncing with the vibrations of the car. Forget how it looked- being in a car was fun. The things you appreciate more when you’re a ghost.

“What else can you do? As a ghost?” You thought about it, before leading him upstairs and pointing to the closed blinds by the large window. He didn’t hesitate to open them, watching as you glowed brighter under the light. 

“Sun-basking,” Winston smirked. Just then, the phone started to wail throughout the firehouse, and Ray joined his friend, rushing down the steps, as Winston couldn’t stop snickering.

“What?” Ray questioned, startled awake.

“Nothing, nothing.”

It wasn’t until after their hour long job that Ray realized he had pen all over his face. And, that you were starting to get restless.

You knew Ray would be at least a little anxious that you were out and about, but you just couldn’t help it. You had friends- or at least, people who had no choice but to be around you. Peter tried to trap you a few more times, to “keep you on your toes,” but you always found new ways to escape. Janine had nearly spilt coffee all over herself when she first saw you, trying to figure out her desktop radio, but you were forgiven after demonstrating your best laundering tips from when you were alive. Now, she lets you listen whenever you want, as long as it was an agreeable station. You’d even met Dana, awed at how much she resembled early 1900’s aristocracy. Louis was so easy to mess with that you’d lost track of what you’d done. And it was fun, to stay out of sight and follow Ray around, keeping your laughter to yourself as he shuddered and continuously checked the thermostat. 

Peter loved to step on your metaphysical toes, especially in the comfort of night. “What-” he flipped on the lights, watching as you sat in the middle of dozens of lit candles, trying to conduct your own personal seance.

“This is where all my red candles went?” he gestured around you. Whoever you would have contacted has definitely flown away by now.

“If you wanted a nice ghost friend, we would’ve introduced you to Slimer.” And who knew, fellow specters could get slimed? He was a clingy friend at first, but he quickly came to terms with the fact that you had no interest in eating.

Your little antics got bolder and bolder as your new friends started to drop their defenses. Switching around their boots, long john’s or pajamas was always fun whenever you got bored- though it got Winston taken off of laundry duty. He could’ve snitched on you, but he never did, and you silently thanked him with your best attempt at brewing coffee. The mug of water you planned to pour into the pot ended up slipping out of your phantasmic grasp, so that was the end of you trying to do favors.

Back to observing. You had been invisibly watching Slimer finish what was left of breakfast, before Peter came in and chased him out. He must’ve been forced to take care of the piling dishes in the sink, because he worked so hastily that a ceramic plate nearly flew out of his slippery hand. You caught it, not wanting the nice glassware to shatter, bashfully revealing yourself.

Peter stared at you, before turning back to the sink like it was the normalest thing in the world. “Oh. It’s you. Listen, Spooky-” he dried a dish, “I heard you learned ‘lights’. That’s awfully cute, but Egon would have my head if he knew I let a ghost run around. My job is to catch you, and you don’t want that. So, scram.”

Peter was officially off your list of friends. What’d Dana see in him? You irritably stalked off, disappearing from sight again.

“It’s still freezing, I know you’re still here.”

Maybe Slimer was better company. Before you could depart, Peter sighed, leaning against the edge of the sink as if he was surveying the amount of dishes he had left to clear. Reluctantly, he turned to you, starting your ascent to the ceiling.

He holds out a dripping cup. “If you help me dry these, I can open the blinds for you.”

Egon walked in then, and you were back to being as clear as air. “Who’re you talking to?” he glanced up from a notepad. Peter’s under eye twitched, and your whole body quaked as the scientist unknowingly passed through the space you occupied. He didn’t say anything, stilling as his shoulders tensed slightly. 

“No one. Say, Egon, how’s a little pool? I’ll let you win.” Peter dried his hands off. Egon didn’t say anything, instead pulling his lab coat closer to himself.

“It’s cold in here,” he stated, pulling up the hefty window. What’s better than sunlight through glass? Sunlight from the source. You settled in euphorically on the sill, ready to sleep for a while. Thank you, Egon- no chores and a great nap. You could continue to dislike Peter, but you did overhear him encouraging Egon to keep the windows open whenever he thought you weren’t around.

Ray sighed, shutting the door to the attic solemnly. It had been a few days, and you hadn’t shown up in some time. Not a sock misplaced, car keys never once being clipped to the back of belt loops rather than the front. Winston had no ill intent, even bringing up your absence a day or two ago. Peter had promised not to try and trap you anymore after he slipped up and attempted it while Ray was turning the corner. Janine wouldn’t, Louis couldn’t…where’d you go?

Egon. It had to be. One surprise, one unsuspecting door being opened…he couldn’t even begin to imagine what could be happening to you in the containment grid. Ray flushed with worry, hurrying down the stairs and bounding into the lab as quickly as possible. “Spengs! Let ‘em go!”

The bespectacled man sat in the dark laboratory, hands wrapped around a cup of what must’ve been tea. There were roots, windchimes, and other trinkets that Ray recognized as objects for attracting the otherworldly placed around the room.

Egon calmly took a sip of his tea. “What’s wrong?” Ray blinked, catching his breath. There you were, not stuck in the mechanics of the containment unit but in your approximation of sitting in a chair, not drinking your tea but enjoying the steam billowing into you.

“But- I thought- you-'' Ray stuttered. 

Egon flipped through a few notes. “I’m not that dense, Ray. And they’ve been a interesting topic of research,” he held up what looked like a much more intensely detailed account of your past life. Ray squinted, skimming past dates, addresses, family names.

“I thought you couldn’t talk!” Ray put his hands on his hips, reeling from all this new information.

You simply shrugged, smiling guiltily.

“You’d be surprised. Did you know they learned lights?”