#maybe it’s the memories and old feelings I have associated with it

[e77y]

This song injures me like no other. Augh

[evilmenenjoyer]

City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

*

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

*

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you. 

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you. 

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.  

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze –, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.

[1980shorrorfilm]

every road i know

click here. resources for palestine, congo, sudan, and other countries.

pairing…ellie williams x gn!reader

in which…ellie thought it was time to solidify your relationship. she might have been wrong.

before you read…inspired by the strangers, minus the killing n stuff. modern day fic. angst with comfort <3

the autumn night is silent, besides the occasional creak of the old miller’s cabin settling into its nighttime routine. you listen to the wind whistling outside, through the tall pines surrounding the small wooden home. 

it’s a lonely town, the nearest house a few miles down the road, something vastly different from your shared apartment in the city. 

ellie started bringing you here after joel had let it collect endless dust and cobwebs, the woman cleaning it all up for you. whenever life got too busy, chaotic, or hard, this way your getaway. peace. just you and her and the nature that surrounded you.

now, it feels as though it’s purgatory. 

the fireplace flickers softly, its glow dancing on the wooden walls, but the warmth couldn’t seem to comfort you. not right now. ellie sits in front of the flames, her silhouette outlined by the orange gentle light.

she has yet to utter a single word to you. the car ride here was silent. even the radio on mute, because ellie couldn’t find the simple strength to turn it up.

the moment is replaying in her mind, over and over, the sad smile you had given her burned into her memory. the thing she’s had anxiety about for the past month. proposing, to you.

the dark velvet box holding the special ring, now lying on the coffee table beside her. a stark reminder of the event.

you’re sat on the couch, chewing your lip, a rose petal in your hand. it’s soft, you find yourself stroking the smooth flower. they cover, nearly, the whole cabin. ellie had thrown the petals around before you had arrived together, trying to make it appear as romantic as possible. 

it’s not her strong suit, her appreciation toward you shown in much different ways than typical lovey-dovey things you see on television, but tonight it felt right. long candles garnish whatever surface she could put them on, yellow and smelling like vanilla. they’re not lit. 

she assumed she’d spark them when you came back from the long day you had. one that started with your favorite breakfast, ellie waking up extra early to make it as perfect as she could. and she did, you made sure to compliment her repeatedly.

then she took you downtown, viewing places you rarely visited, spending more time admiring you than the other pretty views. what occupied most of your time, was going to a museum she took you to on your first date, reminiscing on how awkward you two were compared to now.

she swears that’s her favorite place, and not just because she’s a nerd, because she now associates it with you. 

ellie had took you out to dinner, to your favorite restaurant, hardly eating and claiming she just wasn’t hungry. that was a lie, she just didn’t think she could keep food down. her nerves were washing over her, multiplying when you had finished, and you took a walk near the river, beneath the red trees that blew softly above you.

you had felt her pause in place, holding her warm hand, and you thought maybe the tie had come undone on her sneakers. she had washed them the day prior until her fingers pruned, you found it odd for ellie but didn’t say anything. but that wasn’t the problem. she stared at you like she saw a ghost, and it worried you.

you almost thought this was the end, she was about to tell you those four dreaded words. we need to break up. oh, the idea terrorizes you. that, however, also wasn’t it.

she had whispered inaudible words to herself, then mumbling ‘okay, okay, okay.’

you thought the woman was breaking before you, concern in your eyes, holding her hand tight. then she gulped, trying to get out the rehearsed words that seemed to vanish the longer she stood in your presence. 

how much you mean to her. from the very moment you two got paired up for a project that she insisted she’d do all the work for, but you fought back, finding yourself in her bedroom the entire week, the girl studying you more than the work laid out before her.

she found herself by your side all the time afterward.

she needed to be by your side. 

she doesn’t know how she lived before you, and if she could live without you— no, insisting she could not live with you. she simply wouldn’t have the will. waking up to a bed you didn’t occupy, not hearing your genuine laughter to her most idiotic jokes, not being able to hold you when you experienced the hardest day of your life.

she couldn’t have that. she needs this…you and her, to last forever. so, she asked those four words that you weren’t prepared for. will you marry me?

to which, you didn’t say yes.

you couldn’t. you love ellie, more than you could ever put into words, you swear on your life that you do, and it didn’t at all reflect your feelings for her. you were just…paralyzed. by fear, uncertainty, and the weight of expectations that you couldn’t hold up to for her. every single insecurity, hitting you at once, in the worst moment it possibly could.

you had said her name in a weak whisper, and ellie gulped, realizing what was happening. a tear slipped from your eye, that she quickly wiped away, reassuring you it was okay. that you’re okay. putting you before her, a habit of hers. bits of her broken heart being blown away in the cool wind that hits you, while she cradles yours. 

you walked to the car together in silence, a suffocating fog. a silence that seemed to last forever.

the tension between you two is almost palpable, both of your minds are currently a whirlwind of heavy emotions. a gentle crackle of the fire and ellie shifting in place, makes you finally turn your attention to her. “ellie,” you say her name softly, voice strained as you finally break the unbearable quiet. “can we talk?”

her gaze remains on the fiery flames, her shoulders tense. “we don’t have to,” she replies quietly, “i get it.”

“i don’t think you do,” you lowly say, heart aching at the mere thought of all the negativity running through her precious head, doubts about herself and your relationship. that’s the last thing you could ever want.

ellie swallows thickly, “it doesn’t matter.”

you watch her get up, turning her back to you as she leaves the room. your eyes trail her to the kitchen before you follow her. she doesn’t glance at you as you lean against the nearby counter, watching her grab an expensive champagne bottle. 

you assume she bought it just for tonight, she wouldn’t drink it any other time. she won’t even touch a glass of wine. she pops it open, pouring it into one of the two glasses beside it. “i don’t…” you begin to say as she hovers over the other glass, ellie nodding in response. you’re afraid if you drink it you’ll throw up all the nerves inside your system. 

“i got your favorite ice cream…if you want that instead,” ellie mentions, tapping her finger on the glass, “went to like…3 different stores. couldn’t find the brand you like.”

she ends the sentence with an attempt at a laugh, finding it so silly now. all the effort, for what? humiliation? pity? she sips on the disgusting drink like it would make her feel better. the only other thing that helps her in trying times, is you; and that’s not exactly possible in this scenario.

“do you…” she pauses, staring at the liquid as she swirls it around, “do you want this…us?”

“of course i do,” you answer her without hesitation, taking a step closer to her, but still out of reach. “it’s not that, ellie,” you tell her, trying to figure out how to inform her it’s you and not her, without sounding like a poor cliche overused excuse. 

“it’s just…we’re young…im scared you’re making a mistake,” your voice wavers near the end, ashamed to admit such a thing, that you are her mistake. ellie looks at you like you just spit in her face. she doesn’t know how to interpret the comment, she slightly feels insulted that you would think that she’s making a ‘mistake.’ 

this isn’t putting a shirt on inside out. this isn’t forgetting to turn the light off when you leave a room. it’s not tripping over your step. it’s her committing herself to you, after five beautiful years attached to you, something she wants hundreds more years of, if that were possible. nothing about that is a mistake.

you’re the love of her life. cementing that is not a fucking mistake. 

“is that how you feel?” she flips the script, putting the spotlight on you, feeling like you’re burning beneath it at the accusation. “what?” you whisper, “n-no…no ellie.”

you can’t read her expression, she’s swallowing the rest of her drink, blankly staring ahead. 

she ignores your response, “i’ll drive us home in the morning. you should get some sleep.”

she turns away, placing her glass carefully in the sink, resting there for a moment. your eyes are boring into the back of her head as if you could read the thoughts inside it. so many bad thoughts. 

you push yourself forward, taking a few quiet steps to her. you plant your feet behind her, wrapping your arms around her body. her breathing is slow, her figure painfully stiff, hugging a tree and not your person. so solid despite the endless embraces where she would melt into you.

you murmur her name, holding her tighter. 

ellie can’t resist you.

her hands reach for yours, resting against the center of her torso. her fingers brush against you softly, her breath hitching slightly, before letting out a sigh she’s held in for hours. 

just for this moment, the tension settles beneath the old floorboards of the cabin, giving you air to breathe instead of holding in. your hug is so tender, ellie could be lured to sleep by it. and her body is so warm, you’d rather die than pull away.

you wish it could last forever, and the hours prior could be forgotten. 

then her phone rings from her back pocket, vibrating against you, and she shifts. you let go, biting your lip, watching her fish the device out. joel. assumingly calling to congratulate her. ellie wishes she never told him, because fuck, this is going to be awkward. 

“i uh…should take this,” she whispers, not sparing you a glance when she walks away. you hear the front door open, then shut. you can’t help but walk back into the living room, standing before the window and peeking at ellie, who sat on the porch steps. 

you can’t see her face, her head down, a glow from a cigarette, and grey smoke surrounding her figure. it’s clearly not a happy conversation, there was no sugarcoating what had happened. it pains you. 

you turn back around, following the rose petals that scattered the floor, all the way down the hall, and stopping at the bathroom. you open the door, turning the light on, eyes falling on the several small candles on the edges of the bathtub. red, grey, and purple, they decorated the space. 

ellie really tried to make tonight special.

you stand idly, taking a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, staring at yourself with shame. a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, knowing it did something so drastic, that the only person they love, finds it hard to look at them. 

you quickly turn away. 

you run the bath and wait, tugging your top and pants off, kicking them to the side. you strip naked when it fills up completely, steam radiating from the water. you step in, adjusting to the high temperature, before sinking into it. it almost burns you, but not in a way that you mind. you just don’t care right now. 

ellie is the only thing on your mind. you wonder if she’s talking about you, openly questioning where your relationship lies, if she thinks it’s even going to last after today. 

before you know it, a single tear is falling down your face.

you hug your knees, turning your head and laying your cheek against them. you stare out the open bathroom door, to the wood paneled wall, a framed photo of a deer hung on it.

you forget to blink, spacing out, not noticing the creaking of the front door or the floor. not until ellie is within your view, pausing in the doorway, looking down at you. you’re crying to yourself.

her expression softens, not saying anything when she joins you, kneeling beside the bathtub and touching your face. her thumbs wipe the salty tears from beneath your eyes, but they don’t stop. 

“i’m scared, ellie,” you say just above a whisper, ellie only hears you because of how quiet the cabin is. besides the repetitive dripping from the sink. “i’m gonna fail you…” you continue, your voice now giving up on you, “scared’m gonna ruin this…ruin us…you’re so good, ellie— i just —i couldn’t say yes.”

you choke into a sob, her green eyes now glistening with unshed tears. “oh baby,” she says so softly, giving you the time to process your emotions, to let the tears fall while she holds you. 

“i can’t…” she stops, gulping and sighing, “i can’t change what you think…but i can promise you that nothing could ever change my mind about you.”

her grip on you is firm, reaffirming, as she continues to speak, “we can wait…i’m willing to wait forever for you. i will show you no matter what happens, i will still love you— i will always love you. i just needed…need you to know that.”

very faintly, your lips twitch upwards slightly, ellie mirroring you the moment she notices. “you’re enough for me,” she says, “just you. that’s all i want.”

ellie is, unfortunately, right; it doesn’t change the tainted mindset you have. that, however, has nothing to do with her. you don’t doubt the things she tells you, you’ve never felt more love from someone in your whole life, and you know for a fact that you never will.

and that’s why it brings you relief, to listen to her, understanding her point of view rather than your own, and the cruel demon on your shoulder whispering harsh words into your ear. 

ellie williams is the angel. 

it’s not the first time she’s eased the anxiety taunting you, and it will not be the last. she will always be there, rain or shine, you pushing her away or letting her in. she truly means what she says. you’re enough for her. and soon, you will accept that for yourself.

“i really want to hug you right now.”

ellie chuckles, a lightness in the air as she gets up, grabbing a beige towel. you stand, letting her wrap it around you, shivering at the coolness in the air. not caring about the water droplets still coating your body, ellie’s arms are quickly around you, her palm on the back of your head, cradling it gently.

you instantly feel warm again, at peace.

after the moment of serenity ends, ellie is leading you to the bedroom. she grabs your pajamas from your still-packed bag, letting you put them on while she does the same. your eyes fall on her pale back, watching her throw a white tee on, looking away when she turns her head at you. 

“was thinking about leaving at 8…wanna beat the traffic,” she says, hoping the statement doesn’t go back to making things awkward. just in case, she adds, “can stop at that pancake place you love.”

you can’t ignore the glum undertones of the suggestion, but you still give her a smile, barely modding your head.

you sit in bed, ellie exiting the room to turn off every light in the lonely cabin, leaving you with your thoughts. you hate it. thinking about how happy the two of you were coming here, compared to you leaving. you don’t even want to leave. you want to shut out the rest of the world, but more importantly, your mind.

how differently things would be right now, if you could just do that.

your eyes meet hers when she enters the room again, and you debate what you’re about to ask her. you can’t help it. “can i see it?”

“hm?” “the ring.”

ellie looks at you, freezing for a moment, stuttering, “y-yea…sure.”

again, she exits the room, grabbing the velvet small box on the table, the one she avoided even sparing a glance at just a minute ago. then she jogs back, scratching the back of her neck. she’s nervous as she approaches you, placing it in your open hands, like it’s a baby. 

it’s the first time you’re getting a decent look at it, having been unable to observe it during the moment, and it’s beautiful. it’s simple, yet the green sapphire is so elegant, resembling the way ellie’s eyes look beneath the sun. you smile at it. 

“i…can’t return it…if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“i’m not,” you tell her, “it’s gorgeous, ellie.”

you don’t want to give it back to her. it feels…so right, in your possession, that you can’t help but nervously slide it down your finger. there’s a bittersweet smile on your face at how perfect it is. how when you look at it, ellie is the first thing to come to your mind. 

your lover, for eternity. your lover that swears to you, that your need for her is as mutual as her need for you, no matter the circumstances, it is permanent. that your worries are just that. worries— self-doubt, and bitter thoughts about yourself, that are only present in the moment. they won't last forever. not like you and her.

with hesitance, you take it off, avoiding her gaze when you give it back to her. “i’ll be ready,” you promise, your finger oddly feeling so lonely despite only wearing it for a minute. “i will…i will be,” you find yourself mumbling, ellie getting closer and grabbing your hands.

“hey, i meant what i said,” her thumbs stroke your skin, reminding you once more, “i can wait forever for you.”

and she means it.

[angelicgirlmj]

an angels guide: solo valentines

hey angels! whether or not you are single this year valentines is more than just a celebration of romantic love, it should be one of platonic, familial and most importantly self love! oscar wilde wrote ‘to love oneself is the beginning of a life long romance’ and that quote feels so relevant and meaningful to me. after all the only person who will always be with you and experience every moment with you is yourself - you have to give them the love they deserve. with that being said here it is, an angels guide to solo valentines!

write a list of every single thing you love about yourself. doesn’t matter how long or short, how utterly random or specific it is, the point is for you to have a reminder of what makes you loveable in your eyes that is just for you!

read a self discovery book, it could be from any author, genre, fictitious or not, find a book that prominently features a journey of self exploration.

be kind to yourself. have that snack, go to bed a little earlier, take a walk even though it’s cold, stretch as you wake up, whatever helps you treat yourself lovingly and kindly.

buy a physical magazine - cute, girly and depending on the kind you get valentines themed! my favourites are vogue, the new yorker and the paris review!

write yourself a love letter. make it special, meaningful, sweet, whatever you need to receive in the moment. save it till valentines.

buy yourself a little treat. maybe your favourite flowers or snack, maybe a movie ticket, whatever it is get yourself a gift because you deserve to shower yourself with love!

have an everything shower or bath. be slow and mindful, light a candle and put on a playlist, spend as long as you want doing all of your favourite shower activities. use that shower lotion you save for special occasions and spray yourself with a favourite perfume even if you just are getting cozy for bed.

bake yourself something sweet (or savoury, i just associate sweet things with valentines!). maybe strawberry and white chocolate scones, dark chocolate raspberry mouse or a comforting tray of brownies. save it just for you or share with friends and family!

take yourself on a solo date, spend deliberate and conscious time alone. maybe it’s something small like getting a matcha and reading in a coffee shop, maybe it’s something bigger like a shopping spree at your favourite clothes shop or maybe it’s even a solo trip away! do whatever feels right, affordable and needed for you in this moment.

make a self love, valentines playlist!

declutter your room and make your space bright, cozy and comforting. celebrate and honour your space and self, take the time to pick through the things you love, clean them, treat them with care.

have a romcom film night! make a list, get your fave movie snacks, a drink and cozy blanket and settle in and get cozy.

be creative, learn a new creative skill or rediscover an old one, please use your hands, use your mind, make something just for yourself regardless of how good you think it is.

explore your city or town or the place you live by yourself (if safe and able to do so!), bring a camera or take pictures on your phone. stop and be in the moment, find pockets of brightness and beauty. bring your headphones, find a song that fits your mood. pick up pretty rocks or things you find them and save them. keep things that will remind you of yourself in this moment, this place and put them in a junk journal or memory box.

move your body in a way that honours it and is kind. do a dance workout with rests when you need, move slowly during a pilates workout, go for a run and take the time to breath deeply and drink cold, fresh water. love your body and all that it does for you.

i know for many (regardless of their relationship status) can feel at best bored or like this time of year is pointless, or at worse lonely and upset. this year i want you to focus on finding love within yourself, because, angels, you are so full of it. let internal love fulfill you and then let the external find you. what are your plans for solo valentines or solo valentines activities this month? let me know i would love to hear it and get some inspiration!

happy valentines! love, m.

[kisakunt]

THE RICH MAN’S GUIDE TO CORRUPTION

GIVE IT UP FOR LOVE

warnings… i mean some absolute swine talk, gojo and geto are evil men, you’re a sweet and pure virgin. swearing, mentions of fucking, really just vile pig shit.

synopsis… suguru and satoru have a lovely chat over a warm summers breeze. oh! and sweet, un-expecting, vulnerable you is the topic of discussion.

a word from the creator… idk if i mentioned this but this fic is based loosely off the movie cruel intentions! banger film, check it out. i wrote a lot of this chapter awhile ago so if the writing style switches up next chapter don’t sue me. i’m excited!!!! here’s to the next eleven chapters of hell

series masterlist

Gojo hates the heat. He thinks he's tolerated it before on his father’s yacht or when he did an unnecessary shirtless carwash for extra money he didn't need; but right now with the breeze through the window�� that Suguru demanded be open— overbearing the air conditioner, he's absolutely positive that summer is the worst.

“Start of the year’s comin’, yknow.” He typically broke the silence— as if he could ever shut up to begin with— and he was almost always met with a:

“No shit.” strident response. Those seemed to be Suguru’s speciality, and provoking them seemed to be Satoru’s.

It’s too hot. His white hair presses into the drywall, feeling much cooler than the air outside. “I’m not stupid, Suguru. Neither are you, you know what I mean.” It’s an overdramatic sigh— a call for attention— as he turns his head over to look at him.

“They’re gonna ask us about it soon.” And, in some way Suguru can’t really comprehend, Gojo sounds excited.

His manner isn’t necessarily wrong, not so much as it is unexpected. The ‘new year, new fuck’ competition of Azabu was practically famous among the young men certain to attend— the sons of the sons who started it, and all their nephews or cousins or any synonym for a pig of a relative that they could come up with. And, luckily enough, they had the privilege to be top candidates.

The competition was started by the current dean’s uncle, a horny fuck-all type who would take any and all excuse to boost his ego while tearing down a girls— or maybe he really did just want a good lay. But, it grew and grew and grew, and now it was almost ritualistic, a second identity of worthiness in the form of fucking a virgin before anyone else did.

Sure, they were nothing but thrilled for it as high school reached an end, or even the first or second year of university. But now it just seemed dull.

But, traditions are custom, and customs are a necessity. It’s almost become lore throughout their little clique of affluence; whispered stories from childhood turned into real competition after a long wait, especially from a group of people who so rarely have to wait for anything. It’s inspiring, they think, means to associate themselves with a lower class; normalize themselves just a little more.

Alumni share stories at functions, putting the frat in fraternizing, nonchalance on the tips of their tongues. Sometimes the tone almost feels dark, and Suguru thinks if he were a better person he’d feel some type of sympathy for the girls. Any fragment of empathy he had wiped away when he won for the first time, though, wide smirk as his year mates glared at him; memories of the tight, albeit idiotic, girl engrained behind the lids of his eyes.

Even so, it gets old quick. And it’s not like they don’t fuck dumb, stupid, silly girls with nothing to say for the rest of the year anyway. So, he can’t quite figure out what Gojo is all too excited about.

“Well try to make sure your dick doesn’t get hard from the thought, you fucking freak.” There’s a giggle from the other man, a scoff too, and he pushes his hand out at him.

This is crucial. This is who they are together. A pair— whether it’s a pair of awful men or not.

There’s also a sense of trepidation that comes with it, of course. It’s exclusive, more so than they already are, and if you do one thing wrong- speak a little too loud, come off too brash, give a lackluster lie after actually getting caught— you’re out. And whose pride would want that?

“It’s stupid we always gotta wait for them to sit us down, it’s not like we don’t know what’s coming up.” He scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “Plus, what a fucking weird thing to say to your kid.”

“I mean the whole thing’s odd if you think about it.” Gojo shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets, forearms bare against the linen of his trousers.

He’s right, of course. Even if neither of them feel guilt for their actions, they can’t ignore the sinking feeling in their stomach when their own fathers sit them down and incite such a twisted view on them.

Be that as it may, it’s not too bad when that’s all they know, and it’s not like either of them are going to complain at a quick orgasm, a nice pair of tits, and that goddamn feeling of triumph.

“Do you think they’ll cry again?” Satoru mocks, brimming with glee as he leans in the direction of his friend. “It’s always funny, dontcha think?”

“As if you’d know,” There’s a smirk despite the aggression in his tone. “Dunno why it matters so much to you, you already got bitches babbling about you all the time.”

Gojo sighs, expression bored and childish and fucking greedy. “Yeah, I know but…” His voice peters out, lost in the room. Elation bubbles back into his features, warming his cheeks and animating his eyes as he looks at Suguru.

“Yknow, I heard the dean has a daughter starting, actually. Real sweet gal, even wrote a whole fucking magazine article about the importance of ‘saving your innocence’” his voice wobbles, eyes rolling as he sneers. “for someone you really love.”

“Sounds like she’s ugly.”

“Thought so, too, but..” He trails off, hand fishing in his back pocket for his phone, pupils dilating at the light on his screen. It doesn’t take him long to find the photo; clearly he’s been sitting on his discovery for awhile, anticipating when he could tell him. “Look.”

Suguru doesn’t like to be wrong, much less will he ever admit it. “Holy shit.” You aren’t necessarily the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, probably not even the prettiest he’s seen in the last month, but you were definitely something.

Maybe it was the curve of your jaw or the tint in your lips, but the photo set something off in him. On the surface he thinks it’s the just barely explicit face you’re making in your mirror, phone in hand as you look into your lens, but really, honestly, if he’s searching deep down— it’s the fact he knows you’re the one girl who wouldn’t just throw herself on him if he so kindly asked.

“Sugu, are you ever bored of this? It feels too easy, right?” Suddenly Gojo’s previous excitement feels misplaced, voice itching for more. “Hardest part about it is finding out who’s actually a virgin or not, and that’s pretty simple with how awkward they get.”

“What are you saying?” Maybe he already knows, maybe he’s hoping for the obvious, but he asks like he doesn’t care. The former moves fast, hand steady on the desk as he leans far too close for comfort. In any other situation, he’d probably be met with a harsh jab to the face, but this feels different— secret.

“Let’s do something, on our own, just you and me.” He almost seems too impatient, pressure digging into the ground from the toes of his shoes and gaze begging. It was the kind of thing that made you want to agree, if nothing else to just feel a fraction of the way he seemed to be. Before Suguru could even consider the idea, test the waters and make Gojo beg a little bit, said boy opened his mouth again.

“I mean, unless you’re not up for it. You don’t really seem like the type to make a girl give it up for love.” He snickers, raising the back of his hand to his forehead as he feigns swooning.

“Geto, I— I love you.” His voice is high, wheezy in his imitation and a little rude. “I think.. I think I’m ready- I want it to be you.” He cuts himself off with his own laugh, hand circling over his mouth to try to stifle himself. “Could you imagine?”

“The fuck does that mean?!”

“Cmon, Suguru, you’re not really the endearing type.” He’s edging him now, tone manipulative and pressing and snarky and Suguru knows— of course he knows, but it can’t help but irk him.

“What are you thinking?” And now Gojo’s beaming again, feet guiding him back across the room to his bag, books stacked neatly inside, lying even against each other. He pulls out a magazine and tosses it to him haphazardly before he reaches back for a notebook and a pen.

“Page 36, read it.” The article is cheesy. It’s too long and feels like something right off a self care Facebook page. Suguru is sure he physically recoiled a couple times reading it; especially when you wrote ‘Virginity is a miracle— the ability to show someone how much you love them in such an intimate way should be saved for someone special.’.

It’s shocking that you’re the daughter of the man who oversees their little sex game.

Suguru thinks you’re vile— embarrassing and pathetic and a huge fucking waste of what seems like a really good pair of blowjob eyes. It makes his skin crawl and he verbally scoffs when he reads your finishing sentence about cherishing your virtues, so focused on the arrogance in your punctuation that he doesn’t even hear Gojo’s laugh.

“Pretentious as shit, right?” He snorts, eyes flickered as he recites the passage in his head. “It’s gonna feel so good to fuck the words right out of her mouth.” Suguru didn’t know what he expected from his friend, but it wasn’t that. It’s clear through, through and through, that he’s dedicated to the idea.

“I mean sure, I guess you’ll have your turn. Maybe she’ll fuck just about anyone after I win.”

“Wait, so you’re in?”

“Whatever.”

“Fuck yeah!” He’s joyful, fist pumping into his chest in a quick celebration before he’s holding up his notebook, standing directly across the floor from the desk.

The wood is dark, deep and marbled, glazed over the top and lined with little symbols of power in the form of trophies. It’s clearly something too nice to serve as a welcome mat, but nonetheless Suguru rests his heels on the surface, ankles crossed over each other as he leans back in his chair. His eyes point to the ceiling to look at anything other than the annoyance in front of him.

“Well clearly we need to set up some rules.” He sneers in his seat when he remembers not looking at him won’t make him shut up.

“Okay well we have the obvious: whoever fucks first wins. And I mean fucks, none of that sloppy anal shit. Doesn’t count.” It’s almost funny, but neither of them acknowledge it. If they do, that’ll come hand in hand with the fact they’re acting just like their fathers.

“She has to be sober.” He didn’t really expect himself to say that, but he did expect Satoru to whine.

Gojo lets it sit in the air for a second before he nods curtly and jots something done.

“Would it be too cocky to say she has to cum?” The journal’s away from his face now and someone could, and probably would, argue that the walls are lucky to see the boyish grin he’s got. His smirk pulls up at the corners of his lips, but Suguru just finds it vexing. Gojo is far too full of himself, he thinks, and he hates to admit there’s good reason.

Nonetheless, he has to give him a little shit. “Do they normally not with you?”

“Hey! That’s not what I meant, asshole.” There’s something sweet to Satoru, under all the sickening that is his personality. It makes people understand just why girls fall for him, and definitely helps him keep a good image to the public.

And there’s something smart to him that makes you feel like he could really pull whatever he wanted off. It makes the idea of competing with just him much more appealing.

“Are we gonna have like a— fuck I don’t know— like a time limit?”

“Fuck is this? A video game?”

“I mean no, but competition wise if it takes us like half a year isn’t that kind of stupid? Because who’s to say she won’t ‘really love you’ by then, and then you’re not making her go against anything, yknow?” And there's also something meticulous about him that makes him aggravating as all hell.

“Fine. A month.”

“Just a month?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Plus, anything longer than that and we’d just be a couple of fucking losers chasing after a bitch.” Suguru knows Gojo is giving him a look without even seeing it, the slightly judgmental and almost kind one he does. “What? You’re the one who said it to begin with.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. A month.” It’s silent for a second, comfortable with all their years of each other, before he clears his throat.

“That it then?” Maybe they’re the same kind of evil. Maybe they deserve each other.

“One more, actually.” There’s that feeling from him again, the tone that makes Suguru want to agree aimlessly for no fucking reason other than the possible rush. And before he can fester; before his skin can start to crawl and his hands can get clammy just from that sheer desire in his voice, Gojo grins.

“You need proof. And I don’t mean her saying it, because you can bribe anyone into saying anything. Gotta show it, photo or video or something, balls deep or whatever the fuck.” That almost makes Suguru laugh.

“I don’t think she’s gonna go for that one, no matter how good the dick is.”

“She doesn’t have to know.” Now he’s really thrilled. He doesn’t know what it is, but that lights something in him, stirs in his stomach and causes a little quiver in his brow.

“Fuck yeah, man,” he’s really laughing now, pointing at the journal harshly. “write that shit down.”

There’s something unspoken over them now, a deeper bond than they thought they could have. Neither of them would ever admit it, but it feels like they’re those two high schoolers again, counting down til they can become something fucking great. This is the feeling they’re supposed to get from their fathers’ stupid fucking contest. This is actual competition, a chance to actually win.

A new air falls on them, mixed back in with that warm, rich breeze.

“Okay, that settles that then.” Gojo offers, fingers tapping the binding of his book. “She has to be attending the start of the year banquet so that’ll be an excuse to meet her. Everything from then on is up to us.” Suguru always dreaded that shitty event, but now he finds himself doing mental math to count how far away it is.

Even if the whole thing is trivial, and even if you seem like the most uptight thing ever, Suguru is a man of pride. And prideful he’ll be.

“We still gotta do the ‘new year’ thing, you know. They’ll burst a fucking artery if we say we’re not interested.” His voice is gravelly and calm and so not anything he’s feeling, but he thinks Gojo buys it when he chuckles.

“Can you be excommunicated from being a womanizer? Because I think we would be.” They’re almost joking like everything is normal. It’s different, so much different, but they’re acting the same.

“I’m gonna go grab some water and maybe call one of your maids to make lunch, you want anything?” Suguru shakes his head, shifting in his seat as he tries his hardest not to look at the journal Satoru set on the side table.

“Suit yourself, I’ll be back.”

“Whatever,” He waits after Gojo walks out. Waits a good forty five seconds before he stands up, and he crosses the room in about three.

He glances over at the thrown aside notebook, eyes quick as he scans it. The handwriting is adjacent to messy, scattered and the page is littered with semi vulgar doodles and side bars. It’s coherent, though, and even though they both know Gojo had no intention of giving it to him, it’s got his signature at the bottom.

1. Full fucking!! Penis in vagina

2. No signs of being inebriated. Absolutely stone cold sober

3. If it takes longer than a month after everyone is introduced we’re both “a couple of fucking losers” (< Sugu’s words)

4. Orgasms are important ! Or at least near orgasms (she is a virgin)

5. Photo / video proof. If you can’t get it, you aren’t in it (haha! get it?)

He snickers at four, the uneasy tone in the second sentence almost self deprecating. Despite that, he can’t help but feel a smidge of respect that he ended up adding it to begin with.

He grabs the pen from the table, pressing into the paper too hard as he leaves his chicken scratch of a John Hancock. Okay, maybe this will be fun.

taglist… @moonlight-pearls @sharkerino @echerie

[comradeocean]

"I have found myself talking out loud to you, hoping you can hear me" is a bonkers way for a celebrity to begin a public memorial statement less than 24 hrs after the death happened by someone who has possibly not personally spoken to the dead person in question for almost ten years. I cannot stop thinking about it.

In 2013, Channel 4 did a documentary called Crazy About One Direction that featured a number of high octane waaaay out there fans. I think the band was asked about it during an interview; Louis and the others basically disavowed it, saying it was an unfair representation of girls who like One Direction and the fanbase in general. He wasn't being totally selfless in sticking up for the fans, because some of those girls were profoundly sad and lonely, maybe unwell. And if your mission is to be marketed as a fun-loving carefree boyband, the last thing you'd want to be associated with are young, maladjusted, friendless girls.

Anyway, at one point, one of the girls interviewed says:

Twitter is like a prayer place. When you go to a prayer place, you feel like you’re connected to God. So when you’re on twitter, you feel like you’re connected to 1D. You just have hope. [audio description alt-text: an image of Louis as Jesus Christ]

Zayn is also the only one of the boys to have crossposted his message to twitter.

The thing about One Direction being an accident, sure, a manufactured accident, but an accident nonetheless, is that they were guileless going in, and it showed. I've been mainlining old videos this week, trying to compare those early xfactor days with their contemporaries who were trying to break out around the same time. With everyone else, it was always a band full of Liams: intensely driven little freaks. Sorry, freak is maybe too mean a word to describe that particular mix of hunger and desperation to be accomplished, to be famous, and at the bottom of it all: to be liked. There's been a conscious shaping of the persona in service of those goals: they've learned to dance, to perform, to give pitches, soundbites, hit camera marks on cue. Most of them were also older, in their early to mid twenties. It's not inconceivable to imagine such a trajectory for the most diehard theatre kid you knew from school who decided after uni or whatever ~ to follow their dreams ~. That was the more typical boyband background. (not Liam though. lad was fourteen. he was closer to another subspecies of the genus: the child star)

And 1D in contrast were unpracticed, unstudied, as Zayn put it in that slightly off-kilter way of his (which I always imagine to be indicative of a disjunction between the vocabulary one encounters in school and what everyone around them is used to speaking), "novice children."

Like, truly, they did not give a fuck cos it hadn't yet occurred to them they were supposed to. Liam aside, industry norms were a complete mystery to them, and for many years, they managed to inhabit that sweet spot of flippancy without contempt, whether it was about the project, themselves, or their audience. Liam tells the story about being the go-between for xfactor stylists and the boys and getting into so much trouble on their behalf for wearing human-sized babygrows during a video diary. "Because Westlife would never wear those." [The punchline he then delivers is that Westlife members were pictured wearing onesies soon after. (quite possibly due to how viral anything 1D-related got)]

The boys were so immature. The whole boyband thing had fallen into their laps. They were just happy to be there! This thing that they didn't even know they wanted, they somehow got, and it took the shape of four other boys in exactly the same situation. It comes across very strongly how taken they were with themselves and each other. Find yourself a guy who looks at you the way blah Larry Stylinson blah blah Ziam blah blah blah. Never mind that cos they were all actually so hyped with each other. Any time any of them says anything remotely clever, or funny, or notable, the rest of them lose their shit like they're in on the same hilarious joke. Even if there was no actual joke. Their entire existence at that point was the joke bc how on earth had they landed from where they'd been — small deadend towns hollowing out from deindustrialization — to where they ended up — the xfactor house headed for the very top about to win it all, in the way they did — saved from bootcamp elimination at the last minute, with who they did — four other working class boys they would have never been friends with in another life. It must have been a high like a kind of limerence, like finding long lost family members on the exact same wavelength, like love.

And that was the other key thing about the stratospheric rise of One Direction. We didn't love One Direction only because we loved this or that member. We loved them because they loved each other, because they loved themselves, because they loved us. And they used the internet to show it.

In 2010, mass social media platforms were in their nascence, which is to say, the exploration of how to be a person, with other people, online, at a broad level not limited to specific subcultures, was in its nascence. For many years now, given the levels of extreme over-exposure, the dominant mood has become the mortifying ordeal of being perceived and so on. We've somehow all adopted mini-celebrity mindsets of our own, weary of being exposed to the maw of an unseen public. To be known is to be surveilled.

But the boys individually and at the collective level invited surveillance back then. Because the inverse — to be surveilled is to be known — seemed more relevant for that moment, at the beginning. They made a point of living their newfound lives at least partially online.

They were constantly on twitter, they livestreamed with a dedication that rivaled x-factor video producers, and none more so than Liam. It was already reality tv, this was just the next bleeding edge of "real": the unfiltered, unedited, direct sharing of yourself and what you loved in the last days of the old free-as-in-freedom internet.

When they said, over and over again, that it was all about the fans, it was meant in a very literal sense. Social media and the reality it created produced a feedback loop between the love they had for each other and the band, and the love we had for them, until it was inseparable: their relationships, our relationships, the process itself. Parasociality as it is currently manifested might have found its first mass expression through One Direction.

In separate interviews from This is Us (2013) deleted scenes, Liam and Louis say that Zayn wears his heart on his sleeve. Yet within the best-friends-slash-brothers-for-life schema cultivated as the One Direction vibe, he did not seem necessarily exceptional in his frequent declarations of love and fellow-feeling for various band mates. What he did ultimately end up doing was pulling the trigger on the contractual form their relationships were bound within, such that the I-love-you's inevitably passed from unpracticed to rote to a mandatory matter of their livelihoods. Someone had to be the first to explicitly and consciously decide that this "love" was no longer something they could continue participating in.

From the same set of deleted interview, in a somewhat fitting twist of symmetry, Louis and Zayn go on and on (much longer than Niall or Harry) about how Liam had been the serious and sensible one, but they've managed to corrupt him a little. It makes sense to assume that Zayn is referring to the band in general, but one can also read it to mean the two of them specifically, being the eldest, and their meta-cognition of the terms and conditions imposed by One Direction as a phenomenon.

The love the members of One Direction had for each other and the band and the fans was undeniably "real." The making of that "realness" was conditioned by the x factor throwing together four boys who had very little reference for what the fuck they had gotten themselves into, and Liam. Liam was the intermediary. He was already a creature twisted up and contorting, trying his level best to wedge himself into whatever spaces there could be found in the juggernaut of the entertainment industry. His neuroses and anxieties made the rest of One Direction possible, made One Direction "real" and "not like the other boybands" because that DNA, that what-not-to-do instruction manual could just be crammed into him, and the rest of them could be let loose into the world, unburdened by expectation, free to not give a fuck.

Louis and Zayn's raw, unpolished, typo-ridden letters were the most direct and irrefutable way they knew to swear fidelity to the boy they knew, the band they built, and the lives they lived together. The unfathomable ether of the internet, of the fans, of the massed publics seen and unseen made them, it destroyed their senses of self in ways they could weather until they couldn't, and it's into this ether they send their words, their grief, something real of themselves. Because in the universe of One Direction, this is the orthopraxis by which one proclaims one's faith and one's hopes. This is the prayer place that transcends distance, time, even death. This is how their brother could somehow, some way, still feel their love.

[meanbossart]

I realize this is a weirdly specific question, but what was DU Drow’s experience like first waking up on the Nautiloid/on the beach?

Like, was he wearing Bhaalist stuff when he woke up then? If he was, did he ditch it right away or did he just leave it on until he found gear in better shape or maybe just didn’t want to associate with that symbolism/organization anymore? Like what was the thought process for him there, assuming that were the case??? If he was wearing something else, what might it have been?

I ask because I finally started my first Dark Urge playthrough yesterday (YIPPEE) and am plagued with thoughts about my guy, wondering if maybe he had some Bhaalist gear on when he first fell out of the Nautiloid that slowly was switched out for other things as the story progressed. Then I was like “oh hey what about Drow??? What was going through his head when he woke up that morning on the beach??????” Especially bc I can’t imagine he had much time to look at what he was wearing on the Nautiloid while it was still flying around.

ANYWAYS. Apologies for the ramble, my brain is plagued with thoughts now that I’m finally doing a Durge run so I might come at you with more random ass questions in the future >:)))

First of all AYYYY have fun with your first durge run!!! I'm always open to more questions if they happen to pop up throughout the experience.

Now to your question: An Interesting one! Though my answer might be disappointing LOL

In my personal lore, DU drow woke up from the tank with nothing but some scrappy underwear on - hell, It would probably make more sense if he was fully nude, even, but that would make many of the companion introductions a little too awkward - so, tattered underwear it is.

Considering what Kressa had been doing to him, I imagine that she would have either removed or destroyed his clothes at some point during the experimentation. DU drow was stuck with her for at least a few weeks - so, even if she didn't promptly undress him, his outfit would have been far too slashed, cut, and caked with old blood to keep, and likely torn off so it would stop getting in the way.

Her husband (I think he's the one who ships you away, if memory serves me right) would have had little reason to send him off with dignity - BUT perhaps he slipped some briefs back onto the drow's body because he felt ashamed of the implications of his wife keeping a battered, nude man around.

So, DU drow slides out of his pod, caked with old blood with only some ill-fitting linens covering his groin. He picks up whatever sharp object he finds lying around for self defense and proceeds through the ship, barefoot, hair matted, having no idea who he is, what he looks like, or how he got here. He's completely overtaken by his self-preservation instincts and being confused is second to getting out of his situation alive. He goes along with Lae'zel because she seems to have at least some idea of what's going on, and he frees Shadowheart from her pod because she seems more trustworthy than Lae'zel.

He probably stripped the trousers off of one of the corpses lying around the beach after the actual crash (they would have been a little tight, but it's better than nothing) and god-willing was able to snatch some fresher underwear at the grove or something. The only indicatives he had of a past life were his scars, and I guess his unusual features. The thing is - whenever he first caught sight of his reflection, he very much liked what he saw looking back. Someone else might have been shocked by their appearance, but what DU drow felt would have been more akin to a kind of relief - I'm strong. I'm big. I'm intimidating. Good. As it should be.

And well... There's not much reason to give it thought past that. His looks feel right, he thinks he looks attractive, even his scars are somewhat comforting. Tadpole and odd company aside, it actually feels nice to be himself right now, so why ruin it with questions and concerns.

[monimccoythings]

Mending each other's hearts II

Jesus, this took forever. I'm having so much fun writing this, for real. However I think I'll have to do a third part because GOSH do I love angstiness and suffering. One thing I also love is Jean being a wingman and such a cool friend I want to work more with that.

tw: logan is a caveman and a brute, and possibly emotionally constipated, really; a bit angsty.

I have no idea about clubs, I just googled New York clubs and picked the coolest looking.

tags: @kathieycarrerarosshley (I'm not sure if there's anybody else, sorry, I don't usually check the notes :()

Part I │ Part II (You're here!!)

He basically jumped down the stairs, nearly crashing into several innocent students. Like Hell he was going to allow you to do that to yourself. You were not some cheap whore who did one-night-stands. You were so sweet, so innocent, that the thought of having anyone touch you inappropriately, rubbing themselves against your body, tainting you with their dirty hands made his stomach churn and his claws start to come out.

Despite running as if the literal Devil was chasing him, all his efforts were for nothing, because when he barged through the front doors of the mansion he could already hear the gears of your car speeding up, miles away. Fuck, he was too late; but maybe, if he traced your scent, if he went now to his motorbike he may be able to catch you and stop this madness. As he turned around, he narrowly avoided his keys being psychically thrown towards him. Jean looked at him with a determined look on her face.

“Lavo, go. NOW.” Her voice commanded no objection, and for once, he would happily obey orders.

He usually was very careful with his motorbike, an old lady deserved to be treated with respect, but not tonight, there was not a second to lose. Muttering a quiet apology to his dear ride, he sped off towards the city, silently praying to a god he didn’t believe in that you hadn’t done anything you would regret later.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You felt a sense of excitement settle in your lower belly. Look at you, a grown adult, dressing up all cute and going on your own adventures in the Big Apple, you felt like you were going to squeal like a little girl, either that or you needed to stop the car and puke.

You knew exactly where to go, where the good stuff would be; under normal conditions you wouldn’t be allowed in, so that’s why you were planning to use your powers to sneak in. Maybe you were just some plain teacher at a private school for mutants but that didn’t mean you didn’t have tricks up your sleeve.

A sudden memory of the real reason this was all about, made your heart twist with ache and longing. The memory of Logan and Jean in that empty classroom would be forever engraved inside your mind, a confirmation that no matter what you did, you would never be enough. No. You mentally slapped yourself. You couldn’t keep torturing yourself like that. The only thing invisible about you were your powers. Tonight, you were going to feel beautiful, appreciated, and most importantly, desired. A pang of anxiety hitted you, what if nobody notices? The real possibility of being made into a fool once again was scary and nearly made you turn away and return home with your tail between your legs. They will. Maybe it was that part of you that had been kicked long enough talking, you would never know, but it gave you enough confidence to keep going.

You made sure to park your car as far as you could, you didn’t want anything to associate you with that little stunt you were about to pull. You casually walked into a nearby alleyway to turn yourself invisible, the last thing this night needed was a public scandal. 

There was truly something magical about walking down the street while you were invisible, it made you feel confident and powerful. Nobody could harm you if they didn’t know you were there. You watched couples pass by pampering each other, a group of drunk college freshmans trying their best to walk in a straight line, you could observe every single detail on them without feeling like a creep. Sometimes you wondered why you didn't have your mutation on at all times. It certainly would make your life easier.

Before you knew it, you had already arrived at your destination. Taking advantage of some rich boy skipping line, you glued yourself to his back and entered, making a little squeal that startled the poor security guard.

The place took your breath away.

Lavo was one of the most exclusive clubs in all of Manhattan. One night there (paying the entrance and restaurant, of course) would probably cost you half your salary. You knew Charles could afford it, but you weren’t going to ask him to bill the start of your party girl era.

A sudden realization left you filled with embarrassment; you had entered, now what. In a desperate way to fit in, you decided that the most suitable course of action would be to look for a place to turn visible again and go for a drink.

────────────────────────────────────────────

Logan lost count of how many traffic laws he broke that night, he didn’t really care. All he wanted was to reach you. Each time he imagined a worse scenario that somehow always ended with you in the arms of another man, enjoying his caresses and kisses. He panicked, making his grip on the handlebar painfully tighten. He didn’t know why he was feeling like that, and he also didn’t know what he would do if he found you with a suitor.

He wasn’t impressed at all by the imposing building, and he was less impressed by the regulars. Bunch of spoiled rich brats, if someone asks him.

The security guard wasn’t in the mood to let him in and less while looking like that, but since he didn’t have time nor the patience to deal with any form of bullshit, he opted to launch him across the street with a single punch instead of pulling out his claws, leaving the crowd completely silent.

The inside was as bad as the outside, or even worse. He didn’t like that place at all, too many people, too much noise and too many smells. It overwhelmed him. How the fuck was he supposed to find you there. He showed his way among the crowd, ignoring the grunts and complaints from the people surrounding him, fuck them all. His heightened senses were practically screaming at him to go wild and ravage the place until he got you.

His hunting instincts told him to look for some dark corner where he could keep a close watch on the entire club, it’d be easier, and quieter for him. He could do without all that modern music drilling his ears. Some goddamned peace and tranquility would help him focus.

He didn’t need to wait for long until his eyes settled on you. On the dancefloor, with a glass in your hand, and a man glued to your back with his lips dangerously close to your neck.

Logan saw red.

────────────────────────────────────────────

As you took a sip of your grasshopper, you wondered why you had been worried in the first place. Just one look at how that dress hugged your ass and you had several men eating from your palm. You had to confess that even if it flattered you, it was a bit suffocating having that much attention all of a sudden.

The man you had picked for the night, Kelsey? Kevin?, you hadn't heard it well with the lous music, was actually kinda nice. Out of all of the men that surrounded you he had been the only one to actually try to start some friendly conversation before hitting on you. That sweet attempt just earned him some brownie points. That and that body which seemed to have been sculpted by the gods. Damn, what did they feed him?. His hands moved closely to your hips, and you couldn’t help but wish those arms that held you were bigger, and hairier. You shook your head. Focus on the Adonis right behind you. The one who was going to make you feel so good tonight. You could already imagine it.

But fantasies were just that. Fantasies.

An altercation snapped you out of your daydream. Someone was pushing his way quite violently towards the dancefloor, and by the sound of those screams of protest he wasn’t being very gentle.

The blood froze in your veins when you saw who was approaching. No. How. Why. Millions of questions ran through your mind, your body screaming at you to run, but you were paralyzed with fear.

You had never seen that look on Logan.

Feral.

Wild.

Monster.

You had heard people describe him with those words since the very first day you had met him. Coming from both humans and mutants. You had never paid them any attention, being so confident in knowing that despite his gruff exterior, inside there was hidden a golden heart just as big as his muscles. But now you were considering that despite knowing that, maybe the others had some point in their arguments.

You would be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on a little.

He was getting closer. Unconsciously, you put yourself in front of your dancing partner, despite knowing that whatever little mutant trick you had was useless against The Wolverine’s blind fury. Yet, you weren’t going to let some innocent civilian get hurt because your friend was pissed at you for whatever stupid reason.

His eyes were unfocused, darting from one person to the other like a wild animal. You weren’t sure if he was able to see you at all.

“Logan. What are you doing here?” You tried to keep your voice steady, knowing that when he got like this, anything could really set him off and then all Hell would break loose. He grunted and finally looked at you. Pupils dilating when he got a better look of you in that dress.

“Home. Now.” Among all the noise it was hard to understand him, but whatever he’d said you were sure it wouldn’t benefit you in the slightest. It didn't help that those words resembled more growls than actual speech.

Your new friend, supposedly Kevin, tried to step forward, foolishly thinking he had a chance against one of the most vicious mutants to ever exist. Logan looked at him with barely restrained rage, breathing heavily. His stance, along with the strength the air came out of his nostrils reminded you of a bull ready to attack. You started fearing the worst.

Within a blink, Logan had grabbed your arm and was forcefully dragging you towards the emergency exit. You slammed your heels against the floor, trying to keep you grounded in your spot, but that only seemed to make him angrier. Quickly reaching down, he scooped you up and carried you over his broad shoulder, making you drop your drink and leaving you mortified to the point of nearly accidentally outing yourself as a mutant in a room full of people.

After what felt like the longest time of your lfe, you two made it outside that place and after several kicks and threats, he finally put you down in an alleyway where all the shame that filled you, all the embarrassment, turned into rage.

Why.

Why couldn't he let you have this?

Why wouldn’t he allow you to move on?

Why did he have to keep breaking your heart over and over again? Hadn’t you suffered enough?

You screamed at him, you pushed him and insulted him until your voice became hoarse. The force of your screams were drowned by the sound of an incoming storm. And he just stood there, taking it all in stride, just looking at you, like a marble statue. A less wise person would have thought he was bored, just waiting for you to scream your heart out and finish your tantrum. But his eyes, oh his gorgeous eyes that always made you melt, were filled with emotion. Could be guilt, could be pain, could be grief, they were passing far too quickly for you to notice.

Yet he still didn’t say anything which only fueled your anger. The nerve of him, the fucking audacity. You felt mocked, humiliated, the laughingstock of Xavier’s School; a silly woman in her early thirties with a pathetic little girl crush on a man who wouldn’t give her the time of the day.

You slapped him as hard as you could.

Probably not the smartest thing given his bones were made of the toughest metal to ever exist which you instantly felt when your hand made contact with his cheek. You bit your lip, trying to swallow down the agonizing scream of pain that was crawling up your throat to get out.

That made him react, his expression changing into one of concern. He tried to say something, move closer to you and check your hand, but you stepped back, your back pressed against the brick wall.

Holding your injured hand with your other, you lowered your head. Rain started pouring on you both, drenching your carefully groomed hair and wiping all that expensive makeup away. But at least it would hide the tears that fell freely though your cheeks. 

What a mess you were, drenched like a wet cat, with your makeup ruined and sobbing while the man of your dreams just watched you with pity. You should leave and lock yourself in your room. Turning invisible again, you tried to make your exit towards your car, knowing it would be a long walk full of cries and sobs, but his arm blocked you, damn that sharp sense of smell. you turned around and his other arm blocked you again, effectively trapping you between himself and the wall.

Suddenly you found yourself very tired, of his games, of being screwed over and over again, of your emotional burst. You just wanted to go home, take a bath, and sleep. You couldn’t do this anymore.

“Please. I want to go home.” There must have been something in your voice so broken that caused him to immediately take action. Logan suddenly had the decency to look a bit ashamed of himself, after that stunt he pulled off at the club, however you couldn’t care less right now. Muttering a quick ‘yeah’ he slowly pulled away from you, and awkwardly stepped back.

Not being used to walking on heels, you would have fell face first against the ground, putting the icing on the cake of that terrible night, had not a pair of strong arms caught you and lifted you into a bridal carry.

Not so long ago, you would have been all over the moon at this gesture. Logan Howlett, the hunk of the X-Mansion, carrying you like a princess. Yeah, the old you would have loved that.

Right now you were feeling too emotionally numb to care. Even when his arms pulled you closer to his chest, even when he softly pressed his lips against the crown of your head.

You just couldn’t feel anything.

[hiddenreamers]

Telegraph Road 1977 & 2024 - Lando Norris

SUMMARY: For Lando, the words "first love" just make him think of his childhood neighbour. Then, his heart breaks a little when he remembers she's somewhere in San Francisco. How surprised he is when it turns out you're much closer - in an apartment across the hall. Lando couldn't be more grateful for the strange mysteries that led you to this doorway.

WC: 983

Everybody has those moments when they are suddenly reminded of someone they knew long ago. Old classmates, kids from summer camp, playground friends – people who once were part of your daily life but now you think about them maybe once a year if not less often. Those silent questions of “I wonder what happened to them?” come and go just as quickly, like a golden brown leaf carried by the wild, autumn wind.

Lando is something of an exception to that rule. The thoughts of his old neighbour never quite leave him, as though his autumn is more of a perpetuity than a season. Despite the passage of time, that curious quirk of his stuck. However, the why has changed. While still a child, he’d ponder the memories of you simply out of longing. It is only natural when one’s closest companion is gone one day. Then, as his young heart began revolving around crushes, dates and girlfriends, Lando suffered an epiphany. Finally, he understands! It was as if on some random Tuesday lightning had struck him – it was love he felt for you, not just friendship. And what a tale of one’s first love it told! “We were inseparable, soulmates, if you will, when one day she moved away and I never heard from her again.” Truly, a drama worth a thousand novels.

Little does he know, that those strange mysteries that separate lovers, sometimes lead them to each other’s doorways…

Lando is closing his front door, when the sound of paws tapping the floor grabs his attention. Without much thought, he looks down the corridor.

The tapping belongs to a rather happy-looking Scottish setter. He recognizes the breed only because he’s spent his childhood running around a small British town with you and two of those dogs. Despite the lingering memories of the past, Lando doesn’t mind the pet any longer, again focusing on his own things. Then, a strangely familiar voice distracts him again:

“Come on, Axel! We’ll have plenty of time to make friends later.”

Almost giving himself whiplash, Lando looks for the source of the sound. Could it be…?

You’re a little surprised when you hear someone calling out your name in a questioning manner. As far as you know, none of your friends live in Monaco. So how come someone here knows you? Fixing your grip on the box labelled Kitchen, you take a look around the corridor.

For a moment, you think you’re just seeing things. But you’ve stared at that face for so long, you could recognize him in the darkest, most inexplicable fever dream; the face that you’ve associated with home for your whole life.

“Oh my God, Lando Norris!” you exclaim between chuckles. “I can’t believe it!”

His cheeks redden a little. “You remember me?” The question has a distinct tone of surprise.

“Of course I do! You were my best friend,” you say. “Well, the only friend for a few years,” you add, your voice noticeably quieter than before.

“What are you doing here? I thought your family moved to San Francisco.”

It is only then that Lando truly sees who you’ve become throughout all those years away. Perhaps you are more beautiful than he could imagine but you’re also much sadder. There’s a wistful look in your eye, a tell-tale sign of maturity that is only born out of tears. He can only wonder what pains have brought you back to him.

“At first, it was San Francisco, then New York, Chicago, L.A… I never fit in anywhere. They’re all very lonely cities, you know?” Just for a second, your eyes become glossy. His heart feels a painful sting that only gets worse as you force a wide smile on your face. You’ve had practice in faking happiness, haven’t you? “But enough about me, it’s not that interesting,” you say in a casual tone. “Congratulations on your driving career. Seriously, you’re amazing. Would it be creepy if I admitted now that I’ve watched every single one of your races?”

“Not as creepy as admitting I’ve stalked your social media and never followed you because I thought you don’t remember me.”

“Are you dead serious right now?” Lando’s sheepish smile earns a loud laugh from you. “You should have tried anyway!”

“Funny that you’re the one to say that,” he retorts. “Why didn’t you message me if you’re such a big fan?”

Flustered, you look away for a moment. “Honestly, I thought it would be weird,” you confess. “I was sure you’d forgotten all about me and pulling this ‘we were childhood friends’ schtick now that you’re famous would be so embarrassing. You’re this top-of-the-top racing driver and I’m, well, me.” A bitter chuckle comes after your words but the faux amusement isn’t enough to fool Lando.

“You’re staying for long in Monaco?” His question is accompanied by a light gesture towards the box in your arms.

“As long as they don’t fire me, I guess.” That strange, sad laughter again. “Listen, you look like you have somewhere to be and I’ve already taken up too much of your time. You could come by in the evening, catch up if you want?” Your tone rises, revealing uncertainty about whether the invitation is welcome.

But to him, the answer is obvious. “I’d love that.”

You give him one last smile, then disappear behind the door to your apartment.

In some sense, he has you back. Not the girl he remembers, no. Something innate seems to be gone from your soul but Lando lacks the words to name the change. The sights, the loves, the pains – whatever it was that took your life on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, it sprouted melancholy in the very marrows of your bones.

“What happened to you?” he whispers to himself.

The only answer that comes is muffled footsteps and the shuffling of cardboard boxes.

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This is the development blog for the interactive fiction called "The Second Sight", which you can find on itch.io at the link above!

This is my first IF project, although I've been writing original stories and fanfiction for years.

I've included the story description and character profiles from the itch page below the cut.

This blog will be a combination of development info, images and music that I associate with the story, and other musings.

Fair warning, there might be spoilers from the latest chapters here, so I recommend catching up before reading too far.

Asks and submissions are always open.

You’re an urban legend in a county full of them.  When you were thirteen, you were found passed out in the road by one of the local cops. No missing persons report. No fingerprints on file. No memories. Just a name.

Oh, and some bizarre psychic powers.  You're content with simplicity. You like your isolated cabin and helping Carter track down missing persons.  You know that in theory there are more people like you out there, but you've never wanted to look behind the curtain to find out.

However, with the disappearance of a local teen named Casey Powell and a recent attempt on your foster father's life, your serene, isolated life comes abruptly to its end and a new chapter begins.

✤✤✤

The Second Sight is an urban fantasy story, where you step into the role of a psychic whose strange powers have always separated them from others. Those same powers will drag you down the rabbit hole and into a world that is both the familiar and foreign to everything you know. A world filled with magic, witches, fae, demons, and the unknown.

You can immerse yourself in the story by customizing your protagonist's general appearance, choosing how they interact with others, and whether you lean on logic or intuition to problem solve. There are three love interests planned (more may be added depending on player reception and feedback), the genders of which will be selected by the player upon meeting them.

Characters

Jacob Carter

Age: Late forties

Race: Human. Definitely.

Gender: Male

Temperament: Carter radiates grizzled, old bastard energy and despite being the least paternal person in the world, he is your adoptive father. While harsh and aloof on the surface, he is also fiercely protective of you and has bent over backwards to give a decent life to a kid that isn't even his. He doesn't talk about his life before coming to Herman County and you haven't asked him, though that might change soon enough...

✤✤✤

Zander/Zora

Age: Late twenties.

Race: Human.

Appearance: Umber brown skin, black locs, grey eyes

Temperament: Gentle and resolute, Z isn't what you imagine when you think of an agent of the mysterious Magic and Anomalies Bureau. Kind, soft-spoken, and exceedingly polite, Z is Carter's former apprentice and something about them puts the old man on edge.

✤✤✤ Renard/Rowan

Age: Appears to be in their late twenties or early thirties

Race: Human. Maybe.

Appearance: Tall and slender, white-blonde hair, and gold eyes.

Temperament: Playful and flirtatious, talking to R always feels like a game of cat and mouse and you can never be sure which role is yours. Part sad clown, part trickster, and always maddening to work with, the only things you can be certain of with R is that they probably know what they're doing. Everything else is up in the air.

✤✤✤

Unknown aka "The Kestrel"

Age: ???

Race: Definitely not human.

Appearance: Tall, beautiful, elegant, with black hair and black eyes.

Temperament: The Kestrel is a complete unknown. It's impossible to say whether they are a lethal ally or deadly enemy, but either way they are a powerful dreamwalker. You don't know how long they've been watching you, but you're willing to bet that it's been longer than you're comfortable with.

[sunsets-and-crows]

I Wanna Be Yours - Chapter 5

Pairing: Sylus X Reader

Words: 5.5K

- - -

Tasked with infiltrating the life of Sylus, the most wanted man in the N109 zone, you're torn between what is right and feels right, blurring the line between duty and desire. As danger escalates, you must decide whether to carry out your mission or succumb to the magnetic pull of the man you're meant to destroy. In this game of power and obsession, betrayal could cost you everything.

Content warnings ⚠️

Dark Themes, Yandere! Reader and Yandere! Sylus! Power play. Violence and Gore. Smut: mutual masturbation. Stalking/surveillance. Reader slowly losing her mind. Sylus being hot and a menace. TRIGGER WARNING: stalking and dubious consent. Graphic deptictions of violence.

If you feel there’s any other warnings I need to add then please reach out and let me know!

It had been a good four months since you started surveilling Sylus and maybe three since he had begun to indulge in his own monitoring of you. Now, Sylus craved more. He was no longer content to just watch you from behind a screen. The few occasions he’d been able to see you in person had lit a fire within him and after that night at the club, well a turning point had been met, sparking a need so profound that it couldn’t be ignored. It gnawed at his perfectly maintained control. You’d looked so tempting and responded perfectly to every taunt and tease he threw your way, whether you were aware of it or not. The memory was intoxicating. Everytime he pictured you, he could see the heat in your eyes, or the clenching of your fist. You radiated fury. You were stunning when you were pissed off. The thought of that fury turning to passion sent his pulse racing. 

Now, here he was, parked in the heart of Linkon City, leaning against the leather interior of his sleek black Bentley. The tinted windows provided the perfect cover, granting him a vantage point to watch you without risking discovery. The Hunter’s Association might have called this their playground, but Sylus knew didn’t care. He thrived in danger, danced with it like an old friend, and besides, his own little watchdog was sitting right in front of him, blissfully unaware of his presence.

The cafe across the street radiated warmth in the chill of the autumn evening. Its soft, golden light spilled out into the dusky evening, promising a warm, cozy refuge. It looked inviting. Its patrons nursing steaming mugs,and chatting happily with their friends. It was all irrelevant to him. Sylus’ sharp carmine eyes were locked on you.

You sat by the window, bathed in the golden light of the Edison bulbs, your hair catching the light as it framed your face and your eyes fixed on your computer screen. Your expression was captivating, a subtle furrow in your brow, lips slightly parted and the sharp focus of your eyes. Whatever you were working on, you were completely engrossed. Your fingers moving rhythmically across the keyboard, your concentration completely unbroken despite the hustle and bustle that surrounded you. All of it told him you were working on something important. 

Sylus leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. There was something deeply satisfying about this - watching you like prey while you remained oblivious to his presence. He figured that this must be the same kind of thrill that you got from watching him so attentively. But you weren’t just prey, he reminded himself. You were too sharp, too driven for that. Still, the idea of you being under his watchful gaze, so unaware, sent a thrill through him and left him thinking about you far too often for his liking. 

Your outfit was simple but endearing - a denim dungaree dress over a white sweatshirt, perfect for the brisk weather. Your bare legs, exposed to the chill, sent his thoughts back to the vision of you in his club. A vixen. Dressed up just for him. That dress - short, daring and tight enough to be a second skin - had nearly undone him. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. His driver didn’t need to see him in that kind of moment of weakness and he couldn't get distracted. Not here. Not now.

He returned his attention to your movements - the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers drummed idly against the table when you paused to think. You were diligent, so focused that the world around you seemed to fade into irrelevance. 

“She’s wasted on them,” Sylus murmured, his voice low and rough with disdain. The Association didn’t deserve someone like you. They didn’t see your potential, your drive, your strength. But he did. You belonged somewhere better - somewhere like Onychinus. His lips curved into a smirk as the thought took root. You’d fit beautifully working under him, perhaps even at his side. The thought of you under his command, working tirelessly to please him, sent a spark of satisfaction through him. You’d thrive in his world, he thought. You’d rise higher than you ever could in the Hunter’s Association, and he would reward you handsomely for your… loyalty.

He could picture it clearly; you in his office, seated across from him, your keen mind focused on the operations of his organisation. You’d argue with him, challenge him, and he’d enjoy every second of it. The image was tantalising, almost too perfect. In return, he’d give you everything, a salary that rivaled any you’d received before, a space at every boardroom table, and of course the finest clothing that money could buy, each piece tailored to fit you perfectly. Only for him to pull you into his office, lock the door and ease you from each expensive layer, discarding the material across the floor so he could take you on his desk, peeling away those layers of sharp professionalism to claim you as his. He closed his eyes and sighed, once more finding the need to reel his desires back in and control himself. 

Sylus sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment to rein in his spiraling thoughts. His hand twitched toward the door handle, the temptation to confront you tugging at him like a siren’s call. How would you react if he walked into the café? Would you stiffen under his gaze, your composure cracking? Would your breath hitch if he leaned just a little too close? The thought amused him, but he dismissed it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to end this game of cat and mouse - He wanted to see what your next move would be.

Later that evening, Sylus sat in his dimly lit study, the glow from the monitor casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. The computer displayed everything he had on you, each piece of data he had meticulously gathered and organised over the months he had been researching you. And there was plenty for him to enjoy. 

Your full name glowed on the screen in neat, official letters, accompanied by a wealth of information: hospital records, government documents, your lease agreement, employment contract, and even your social media accounts. The details painted a picture of you that only he had the privilege to see, some details so scandalous that even your friends might not know them. Interesting, that you had protocore syndrome, and an aether core at that too, just like him. The parallel wasn't lost on him. 

He didn’t stop there though. He hadn’t just dug into your life; he had unearthed the hidden layers of your past as well. You had left your hometown years ago, severing ties with your parents - if they could even be called that. They hadn’t been much more than placeholders, offering little in the way of love or support. Sylus doubted they had even noticed your absence. It was no wonder you struggled with attachments - your upbringing had left you adrift, grasping for something to anchor you. He admired your strength for walking away from such a hollow life, but the scars it left fascinated him.

And then there was Noah.

Sylus’ eyes narrowed slightly, the name practically glaring at him from the page. A bland photo of the bland man accompanied it. Everything about him was unremarkable, an average face, average height, average hair colour. He practically screamed beige. Sylus clicked his tongue as he looked at the information the screen presented him with. The only interesting thing about dear Noah was the smirk that rested on his face. And that just pissed Sylus off, he wanted to erase it. 

This was the man you had been consumed by previously? He couldn’t quite pinpoint why the thought had him bristling. He wasn’t jealous, no that would be far too beneath him. Perhaps his issue was more that you had had such poor tastes before your infatuation with him had started. As if somehow, that fact made him and Noah comparable in some way. Or, more likely, it was the way your story with Noah had ended - the ridicule, the humiliation and the pain that had driven you to start over in a new city.

Sylus didn’t hesitate as he looked over the audio logs that he’d been sent. Linkon’s therapy network was terribly protected considering the sensitive information their databases contained -  he’d have to remember that for the future. 

He played the first audio file. Your voice played softly through the speakers, shaking yet determined as you spoke to the therapist. You sounded different to how he imagined, better in fact. Your words were guarded, like you weren’t entirely sure if you should trust the professional sitting across from you. It was smart of you to hold some parts of yourself back, but it irritated him nonetheless, he wanted to know more than you were letting on. 

17 sessions later and and Sylus found what he was looking for. Sylus leaned back in his chair and fixed his sights on the empty one across from him. He imagined you sitting there, telling him the story of your ill fated attraction to the lesser man. 

As he listened, his irritation grew and grew, morphing into white-hot anger that danced under his skin and caused his evol to flare, the energy begging to be released, to crush and maim. He could hear the pain in your voice as you described Noah’s cruel words, your panic and the way his fist felt as it connected with your face. The sound of your teary sniffles filled his ears as you let yourself cry. He turned it off as the therapist began to weigh in on the situation. As far as he was concerned, her opinions were irrelevant. 

Sylus’ fingers tightened on the edge of his desk. He played the recording twice more, trying to gauge the situation, his jaw clenching harder each time. The thought of someone so unworthy of you not only occupying your thoughts but also daring to hurt you? It was unforgivable.

He wasn’t angry at you. How could he be? No, his fury was directed squarely at the arrogant man who had taken your vulnerability and stomped all over it. Sylus wasn’t the kind of man who let things go. He glanced at the time. You would still be safely tucked in bed, out of sight and out of trouble for now. That gave him plenty of time to make a quick trip without you finding out his destination. 

His gaze lingered on the photo of Noah, his irritation morphing into a cold, lethal resolve. This man had not only hurt you but had dared to leave scars that Sylus now carried with him. It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself - it was justice. You deserved retribution, and he would deliver it.

The crisp afternoon air felt sharp against your skin, the waning sunlight casting a warm glow over the crowded streets of Linkon City. The ever-present hum of life filled the spaces between your thoughts as you jogged through the city. Each turn, crack and crosswalk was familiar to you. This was our home afterall, no matter how distant you felt from the ordinary people that filled the streets. You had been jogging for close to 45 minutes now, your mind an endless run of thoughts about your next moves.

The folder containing your Hunter’s Association-provided alias sat on your desk back home. It had been untouched for weeks now - partly because you already knew every detail of it, but mostly because it irritated you. Natalie Moore, they had named her, a runaway from the outskirts of the N109 zone, desperate to escape a debt-riddled family and willing to do anything to start fresh. Natalie was meant to serve as your way into the upper echelon of the N109 zone, to allow you to enter into clubs, meetings, balls and even auctions… by posing as a waitress or a bartender. You scoffed at the thought.

Natalie was limited, small. There was no way that Natalie would get you what you wanted.

The fact that the Hunter’s Association had created such a lowly alias spoke of two truths. Either they had no clue about what a man like Sylus truly needed or wanted or, they had no faith in your ability to get close to someone like Sylus. Maybe it was both. With Natalie you would be forced to scrape along the edges of his world, and report back with whatever scraps of information you could get. Getting to interact with him would be hard enough,  but gaining his trust would be impossible. They could kiss their original plan goodbye.

Yes, you’d completely abandoned their cause by now, but that wasn’t what was important! There was no room for ambition in the Association’s plan - only caution. As if Sylus wouldn’t see through something so shallow, so beneath him. No, if you were going to get close to him, and god you hoped you would, you needed to meet him on his level. You needed to be someone worth his attention. Natalie Moore was definitely not that person. 

Your decision came easily after that. Abandoning the Association’s mission was one thing, but allowing them to know that was another thing entirely. They would know if you used their alias, were keeping tabs on it and tracking the movements made by it, so you had to use it somehow. If they wanted you to be a shadow, then fine. But you would decide what kind of shadow. And you would need another, someone more elite and respectable. Someone in the same social sphere as Sylus, that you could use to finally meet him in person. 

The jog back home seemed easier with your new resolve, your footsteps lighter and less  filled with uncertainty. 

The subdued outskirts of the N109 zone had a very different energy from its chaotic core. The streets were quieter here, less crowded but no less dangerous. The buildings were worn down, their façades crumbling under the weight of neglect and time. The sunset’s golden rays just barely reached this far out of Linkon, the weakened rays leaving a warm glow on the buildings’ crumbling facades. Despite all of it, the cast shadows were just as dangerous as the ones in the centre of the N109 zone, the danger all too familiar. You couldn’t forget that, in this place, the wrong move could get you killed - or worse.

You walked briskly, pulling your coat tighter around you and ducking your head low. You’d dressed practically, blending in just enough with the locals to avoid unwanted attention, but it was not enough to settle your nerves. The outskirts may not have been the heart of the zone, but danger was woven into every corner of this place. 

You jumped as the fluttering of wings broke you from your thoughts. A single black crow perched on a rooftop, its gaze locked on your hurried steps. It cawed, breaking you from your reverie and ushering you to hasten to your destination.

Finally, Axel Kane’s shop came into view. The rusted signage flickered weakly above the door, the neon letters barely legible after years of being neglected. Repairs and More, the sign read. The “more” was what had brought you here. Axel was known as a fixer, someone who could get you just about anything you wanted if you had the money and the patience for his personality. You had both - or at least, enough of the former to outweigh your lack of the latter. You’d emptied your bank of your savings a few days ago, in preparation for…something. You didn’t know what just yet.

You stepped inside, the door creaking loudly behind you making the hairs on the back of your next stand up. The smell of metal and grease hit you immediately, mingling with the faint tang of burnt circuitry. Axel was seated behind his cluttered counter, his cybernetic eye flickering faintly as it focused on you. He looked up from the object he’d been tinkering with, his expression shifting from disinterest to vague amusement.

“Well, if it isn’t the Association’s little puppy dog,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair and fixing you with a smirk. “Y/N! What brings you to my fine establishment today? Need something fixed, or are you here to sulk?” 

Axel was someone you knew well. When you’d first moved to Linkon, your life had been a mess. It was only natural that you’d fallen in with the wrong crowd before you’d ended up at the hunter’s training centre. Axel was somewhat of a friend to you in those times. You’d met him in a bar of all places, one of the most run down establishments you'd ever had the misfortune of being in, but the alcohol was cheap and your worries were mighty enough to require copious numbers of them. 

That’s not to say that Axel was a safe person to rely on however, but at the end of the day you’d gotten him out of a few issues a while back and he owed you a favour.

“Axel,” you smiled, turning on some charm to try and appease him. His eyes flashed with something unrecognisable, was it fear? “I need an alias,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

Axel raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Hmmm, I thought you had your great Hunter’s Association tending to your every need these days, have you had a lovers’ spat and come crawling back to me?” He said in his signature drawl. 

“How did you know about that?” You asked. He levelled you with a stare as if to call you dumb for even asking. “Yes, I’m on a mission but the alias they gave me is terrible! The person I’m tailing is going to see right through it!” You explained. 

Axel huffed out an amused laugh, “So you’ve finally outgrown the Association’s scraps, have you? What’s wrong with good ol’ Natalie?”

You sighed, giving him a look. “Well, since you already know about her, it means others will already know about her. That and she’s nowhere near the type of person I need to be,” you replied, your tone clipped. “She’s not going to get me into the right places.”

Axel let out a low whistle, leaning forward with a glint of curiosity in his gaze. “Big ambitions for someone working for the suits. You sure you want to play this game, sweetheart? It’s a dangerous one.”

You met his gaze evenly, steeling yourself against his questioning and your own worries about your capabilities. “Can you do it or not?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, I can do it. Question is, can you afford it?”

You rolled your eyes, taking out a wad of cash from your bag and handing it over. “You’ll get the rest when I get my alias,” you said. 

Axel looked at you in shock as you handed him the cash. He was equal parts impressed and concerned. “Nah, I owe you kiddo, don’t think I’ve forgotten that. This,” he waved the money in the air, “this will be more than enough.”

With that Axel got to work.

“She’s gonna need a name,” He said, not looking up from the screen as he crafted your new persona.

“Seraphina Bellmont,” you said without hesitation. The name had come to you on the walk over and you were quite proud of it. Seraphina Bellmont. It was elegant and commanding, a name that belonged to someone who didn’t just exist in a room but owned it, commanded it.

Axel let out a low hum of approval. “Not bad. What’s her story?”

“An heiress,” you said, having already put together the minor details you would need to memorise. “Just returned from studying business in Paris and is preparing to take over her family’s weapons business. Wealthy, ambitious, and most importantly well-connected Axel.”

Axel chuckled, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Now that’s a story. Daddy’s little princess, ready to play with the big boys. I like it.”

The details didn’t take long to flesh out after that. Axel was many things - sarcastic, abrasive, and infuriating - but he was also efficient. He’d earned his reputation fair and square over the years and his work showcased exactly why he was so notorious. He got to work, pulling up files and templates on a screen that looked far too advanced for the rest of his rundown shop. You stood nearby, watching as he crafted your new identity piece by piece.

By the time Axel finished, Seraphina Bellmont was as real as you needed her to be. He handed you a folder filled with meticulously crafted documents - bank statements, business licenses, even a fabricated family history. There were photos of lavish events “you” had attended in Paris, carefully curated social media posts, and a list of high-profile contacts you could name-drop if the occasion required it.

“This is good work,” you admitted, flipping through the hefty folder of information.

Axel smirked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head. “Of course it is. It’s me after all, I didn’t get to where I am by doing the bare minimum. She’s airtight and well rounded. But be careful with this, sweetheart. Just because Seraphina looks real doesn’t mean you are. One slip-up from you, and it’s over.”

You nodded, tucking the folder into your bag. “I’ll manage, Axel.”

As you turned to leave, Axel’s voice stopped you. “You know,” he said, his tone unusually serious, “this is a risky game you’re playing. You sure you’re ready for it? You never know what’s gonna happen when you get involved with this guy.”

You glanced back at him, your expression calm but questioning. “I never said it was a man.” You stated levelling him with a hard gaze before sighing and dropping it. “Regardless, I have to be, there’s no room for failure now, I’m in too deep.” 

Axel nodded once and watched as you turned to leave. He sighed and rubbed his chin as he thought about your conversation. It had been years since he’d last seen you and now you turn up looking for an alias to get you close enough to the most dangerous man in the N109. A man who knew your exact movements yet allowed you to continue your doomed mission. He agreed, you were in far too deep. “Deeper than you know sweetheart.” He muttered to himself as he heard the door slam shut on your way out. 

Walking back through the streets of the N109 zone, you felt the weight of the folder against your hip, a constant reminder of the choice you’d made. Natalie Moore had been given to you, a tool of the Hunter’s Association. But Seraphina Bellmont? She was yours. She was a weapon you had forged and intended to wield to further your own cause.

As you reached the border where the N109 zone ended and Linkon began, your mind was already racing ahead. How you could use Seraphina to get closer to Sylus, closer than the Association could ever hope to get you. How you could walk into his world as an equal, not as a spy hiding in the shadows. You didn’t know if it was the right decision, but you didn’t care. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you were in control. 

A pair of crimson eyes watched as you left the shop and started your journey back to Linkon. Mephisto’s calculating gaze monitored your every movement from its place on the roof of a nearby building, ever present, ever recording for his master.

The streets of Noah’s neighbourhood grew more and more dilapidated as he drove through them. It was a far cry from the polished world of Sylus’ empire in the N109 zone. The flickering street lights cast eerie shadows over the dilapidated houses, their cracked facades and overgrown lawns speaking of neglect. Sylus stepped out of his car, dressed down in a plain suit and cap that disguised his usual striking appearance. 

He couldn’t believe the state of your hometown. Each road, filled with lifeless houses and run down social areas, hell even the park was barren of life of all kinds. How could such a bland place be the birthplace of a spitfire like you? 

Noah’s house was as unimpressive as the man himself, its exterior chipped and weathered. Sylus sneered at the thought that this could have been your future, that in another universe, you were here with Noah, in this shitty little town having his disgusting spawn. It made his skin crawl. Sylus approached the door with the calm confidence of a predator, knocking once and slipping on his practiced, disarming smile. 

Noah’s face was as forgettable as his photo, but the arrogance in his posture was palpable. "Yeah?" he asked, suspicion evident in his tone.

"Good evening, Mr Noah is it?" he asked, his voice smooth and polite. 

“What’s it to you?” Noah responded clearly on guard.

 "My name is Mr Skye, I’m with LTR broadcasting agency,” Sylus began smoothly, his voice dripping with feigned politeness. “I’m doing a piece on human attachment issues. I came across your name from a newspaper article and thought you might have an interesting perspective to share."

Noah blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Am I gonna get paid for this?” He asked briskly

Sylus smiled as he spoke, his tone dripping with honey “Oh absolutely, you’ll be given exactly what you deserve for your input.” 

It clearly didn’t take much to convince Noah,the promise of money was clearly enough to have him accepting. "Okay, yeah, sure. Come in, I guess."

The house reeked of stale beer and sweat, a fitting reflection of its occupant. Sylus sat on the worn couch, his presence commanding despite the shabby surroundings. Sylus took it all in with a quiet distaste, though his expression remained polite.

The conversation began innocently enough, with Sylus asking open-ended questions and Noah happily bragging about his past relationships. "I don’t get attached, you know? Girls always get wayyyy too clingy. It’s a fucking nightmare."

Sylus’ smile didn’t waver, though his hand twitched slightly as he pretended to take notes. Truthfully, Sylus didn’t give a fuck about what he had to say, but it was always fun to play with your prey. "Interesting. And what about that newspaper article I found. It seems you have first-hand experience of a tricky relationship? There was an incident between you and a girl, right?” Sylus pretended to flip through his notes, as if your name wasn’t taking up most of his headspace at that very moment. “Ahh, yes Y/N. What about her?"

Noah’s smug grin faltered for a moment, then it returned in full force. "Her? God, she was a freak, a complete headcase. Yeah you wanna know about people with issues, she had some fucking issues alright!” The more he relaxed in Sylus’ presence the more his answers seemed to flow out of him. “ That freak followed me everywhere, wouldn’t take a hint. It was like she thought we were soulmates or something. Fucking obsessed man!"

Sylus leaned forward slightly, his red eye glowing slightly as he engaged his evol, not forcing the matter, but giving the other man a slight tug to open up honestly. "And how did you handle such an uncomfortable moment?"

Noah hesitated, only slightly. He looked Sylus in his eyes getting caught into the web of his evol and then he continued. "Look man, I tried to be nice, for a bit. But she just wouldn’t stop. I got mad, I guess"

"And hit her," Sylus said softly, the words hanging in the air like a knife poised to strike.

Noah’s eyes darted nervously, but he covered it with a laugh. "Yeah I guess I did, but you have to understand right, she cockblocked me, and anyway attractive guys like us are naturally born to take control of women like that, she needed putting in her place. She fucking deserved it and much worse” 

That was it. The last thread of Sylus’ patience snapped. In an instant, his smile vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal glare. "You and I are not the same,” Sylus stood from his position on the couch and stretched slightly as he prepared himself. “You put your hands on her," he said, his voice low and venomous, "Used brute force against her?” he asked, his tone full of the seething rage inside him. “Was it worth what I’m going to do to you?” The threat was clear in his voice. 

Noah’s face drained of colour, his flight or flight response leaving him to freeze in his position on the sofa. It had only just occurred to him that this man might have been someone worth being scared of. “D-did Y/N send you?” He asked, his voice shaking, betraying the fear he felt.

Sylus huffed out a humourless laugh, “Did Y/N send me? Not even close. Stand up.”

Noah, stood on shaky legs attempting to placate Sylus with his compliance, “Listen man, I don’t get what’s happening here, but I was just defending myself from that freak! You don’t know what it’s like to have her follow you around and completely obsess ov-” 

“It’s a privilege,” Sylus interrupted, “to have even a minute of her attention. You should’ve grovelled at her feet in thanks.” Sylus’ eyes flashed dangerously at Noah’s attempt to explain himself.

He barely had time to react. Sylus moved like a shadow, grabbing Noah by the throat and slamming him against the wall. Noah struggled, his hands clawing at Sylus’ grip, but it was useless, his grip tightened and tightened, cutting off his oxygen, and sneering at Noah’s rapidly purpling face. 

Just as Noah’s legs began to stop moving, indicating his rapid descent into unconsciousness, Sylus released him. A cruel smirk played on his face as Noah dropped to the floor gasping for air and clutching at his neck, coughing. Sylus tilted his head and crouched down to meet Noah’s level. 

"You don’t get to hurt her and walk away," Sylus said, his voice deadly calm. "You don’t even deserve to speak her name."

The struggle didn’t need to last long. Sylus could be efficient and methodical in his dispatching of someone from the world, but he drew out each of Noah's final agonising moments. Each time bringing him to the point of losing consciousness and then allowing him the chance to recover a little strength. Sylus was edging him with his impending doom.

When Sylus finally decided Noah had suffered enough, the man was reduced to a pitiful heap of blood and tears. His face was unrecognisable, swollen and mangled, his neck bruised to a deep, sickly purple. The sight filled Sylus with a dark satisfaction, and for the first time, his smirk softened into something resembling genuine pleasure—a cold, merciless joy that sent a chill through the room. 

“P-lease man, p-please don’t k-kill me. S-she’s just a girl, you can have her! I don’t deserve this” Noah choked out through the blood that oozed from his mouth. It sprayed as he spoke, leaving droplets of red flying everywhere. 

“As if it was ever your choice that I should have her.” The last of Sylus’ patience snapped, he took a step back and allowed his evol to envelop the wheezing man at his feet. The tendrils of energy tightened themselves around Noah’s body as sylus spoke, “You deserve all of this.” 

With that Sylus took a seat on the sofa, far enough away that the upcoming spray wouldn’t reach him but close enough to witness the look of horror cross Noah’s face as he finally understood that he had been sentenced by the executioner himself. 

Noah cried and begged for a mercy that would never come. The energy coiled itself tighter and tighter around his body, until a sickening crunch reverberated throughout the house, the sound of his bones snapping, crumbling under the pressure of Sylus’ evol. His bones turned to dust inside him and the meat that was left splattered over the walls and carpet as the harnessed energy reached its peak. All that remained was a bloodied stain and bits of flesh mapping the position of his final moments. His arrogant smirk had been wiped from this earth altogether.

Sylus sat amidst the carnage, his breathing steady and his mind finally calm. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a brief moment, tipping his head back against the sofa as if savouring the quiet. But the air, thick with the stench of stale beer, sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of what was left of Noah, soured the moment, making his nose curl in disdain. The serenity shattered, he rose smoothly, leaving the house without a second glance. His movements were silent as he slipped into the shadows, his thoughts already moving on, as though the grim scene behind him had never existed.

He felt no remorse, Noah had been a stain on your past, a wound that needed to be cauterised. Now, he was nothing more than a footnote.

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

I feel Sylus is incredibly hot in this chapter to be honest, but let me know your thoughts haha! Thank you so much for reading!

Please let me know what you think  

❥ Like, reblog, comment, message me, ask me something, literally anything - I live for your feedback on this  ❥

[worldly-fluster]

WARNING: ANGST

Talk of wanting to commit unalive.

You have been warned.

The LADS boys when...they find your 'Diary'

--Zayne-- Part 3 of 4

This is gonna be...fun lol

Zayne-

•He knew, somewhat, of what happened. In the time that he was gone, he knew something happened.

•Before he left, when you were younger kids, you were so...bratty. He may have looked like he hated it but he just couldn't get enough of you, as you were.

•He left in order to learn more, to help your heart.

•But when he was finally able to come back, when he saw you again...it was like whiplash.

•You were so quiet. So...withdrawn.

•This won't do.

•He knew you didn't speak about your family anymore. He didn't pry, they were full of themselves before he left, probably nothing changed with them so he saw no point in worrying.

•So he worked, even more, to get you to come back. His little bratty childhood friend.

•He succeeded after a while. You were confident again, acting like the kid you were a long time ago but...more mature this time.

•Though he may not like that your job puts you in harms way, but he couldn't force you to stop something that made you happy.

•He saw your eyes gleam when you saved lives. He couldn't, wouldn't ever even try to take that away from you.

•Today was no different.

•You just successfully defeated one of the most powerful Wanderers the association has seen in a while, yeah there were casualties but there were more survivors than wounded. Thanks to your quick thinking.

•He took you out to celebrate, after checking you were unharmed.

•You both went to an old restaurant that you used to go to as kids, he wanted to see you happy with memories.

•What he didn't expect was to run into your Mother and...some random man?

•You all stared at each other for a few seconds before Zayne stepped between you and smiled, stiffly.

•"Oh Hi Zayne, it's been a while. How are things?"

•While Zayne talked with your mother, he figured out a few things.

•Your parents got divorced, and your mother is... a complete narcissist.

•She married another narcissist, perfect for each other.

•The whole conversation took a turn however when they asked what you did for a living...

•When told, your Mother frowned.

•"So you were one of the people who failed so save those innocent lives lost?" "No wonder they died. Maybe you should have tried harder."

•When you told her that you got hurt trying your best, she frowned deeper.

•"Still, if I were you I would have tried harder and if that wasn't enough I would have sacrificed myself. I wouldn't be able to live with myself, like you, because I have a soul."

•Upon hearing this, Zayne understood more of why you stopped being around your mother.

•Zayne quickly came up with a work emergency, saying that he was your ride and you left most of your things in his car so he'll take you with him.

•He took your hand gently, paid the bill, and led you away to his car.

•He could feel icy hot anger creeping up his back, he knew if he heard anymore he would accidentally use his evol.

•He loved you since the beginning. He couldn't stand hearing that and knowing that you used to believe that... hopefully you don't anymore, not if he can help it.

•He drove you home and both of you decided to stay inside to read a few books you have yet to read.

•When you got home, you immediately went to take a shower, to get your thoughts together, while Zayne looked through the surprisingly large selection of books.

•While searching, he saw one of your old notebooks that he would see you write in sometimes. He's asked about it and you told him he could read it at a later date.

•He figured now was the later date, so he picked it up to read.

•Only a few pages on and he realized what you ment by 'later'.

•This notebook is the equivalent to writing a Will...and he didn't like how you were 'talking' about your death coming sooner or later whether it be by natural causes or your own hand...he definitely didn't like that part.

•He kept reading, thinking that maybe he should have convinced you to therapy, but he saw something about how you have been to too many therapists and you're sick of it, so he decided not to worry about it quite yet.

•He got to the last entry, which seemed pretty recent, when he heard your shower stop so he immediately snapped the book shut and put it back where he found it, picking up a random book next to it. Something called 'Forgiving what you can't forget', he doesn't know where you got this one nor does it look like something you would buy yourself.

•The entire time you all were reading together, he kept glancing from his book to you and the notebook.

•He decided he was definitely going to make sure that nothing in that book will come to fruition. If it's the last thing he does.

**I'm working on Rafayel's as we speak lol the last one, and imma try and make that one extra angsty cause I'm realizing most of you are Rafayel girlies 😘**

[sysmedsaresexist]

Hello. I know I've sent in messages before but very very rarely. But recent events have caused us to have a question. Just this week, we got officially diagnosed with D.I.D and recommended the idea of getting a psychologist for the first time in my life, besides a psychiatrist. Two of my alts say they can't be serious but the other three think they are bout the psychologist and we are nervous. I saw you talking about disorganized attachment in your latest posts and was wondering if you could tell me more bout what that is because it sounds like I may have experienced that and I'm trying to understand myself and us more from others with experience with D.I.D and similar disorders. We hope that makes sense! We are still very new to all of this. Thank you so much for your time. - Us

First, congrats!!! Try to come back and tell us what therapy and the interviews are like! I'm certain my followers would love to hear about it. It's scary, I'm so proud of you ❤️

Disorganized attachment is both very complicated, and quite easy to understand. I just reblogged a couple old posts about it, but this will be shorter :)

This is my favorite image to describe it!

Note that disorganized attachment (DA, from here on) is linked to low trust in self AND others. All of these types of attachment have shown strong links to different types of disorders, but DA is most associated with dissociative disorders.

The most important thing I've learned is

Even well-meaning, well-intentioned, loving parents can cause DA

DA can be hidden trauma, its relation to neglect is much stronger than originally thought, and neglect is a lot harder to spot and understand than straight up abuse.

A quick note here: DO NOT play trauma Olympics-- with yourselves, with others, on this post, nothing. Trauma is a personal reaction to events, abuse, or neglect and can occur in response to literally anything. When it comes to CDDs, we're looking at cumulative responses resulting in psychopathology, and you don't get to decide what was enough for other people.

It's their reactions.

Mind your own business.

So, all that said, DA is about the child being both fearful and reliant on caregivers. They want to both flee to and flee from caregivers. When a caregiver is unpredictable, the child has a difficult time establishing a consistent view of the caregiver, and of themselves. In other words, the caregiver is both needed, and someone to be avoided, and the child may not understand what makes them a “good” or “bad” child, as the caregiver’s behavior is often confusing and unpredictable.

I'm going to throw out a couple examples here:

Parent A has yelled at you, and you're scared to go to parent B and talk about it - neither parent feels safe but they're your only source of comfort

You're hungry, but parents scold you for eating too much - you're both scared to ask for your needs and yet reliant on their abilities to meet them

Sometimes parent is attentive and kind, and sometimes very dismissive - you never know what you're going to get, but when they're dismissive, it kills your drive for things you thought you enjoyed - sometimes parent puts your art on the fridge and sometimes they throw it in the trash, and maybe that particular piece was important and you'd expected better reception

Parent gets physical when they drink but at school, parent is a model citizen and teachers and other students always tell you how lucky you are

Parents are openly homophobic and you think you might be a little gay - they're good people otherwise (you think), and maybe if you just keep that part of you down...

Parent struggles with their own mental illness and you never know what kind of reaction they'll have, but you treasure the good memories and hold out hope you'll see that side of them again, despite the many letdowns

Parent doesn't let you keep anything to yourself, it's to the point you want to avoid them as much possible, only seeing them for meals

Parent is... mean. Just flat out mean, and they'll tell you no one will listen to you. There's no point is trying to find help with other caregivers-- teachers, babysitters, friends. It's just you and them, against the world.

The start of DA is typically formed in infancy when a parent doesn't respond properly to their child. Missed feedings, not enough skin time, mixing "cry it out" with giving in, ignoring cries for food or changing. These first attachments in infancy set the tone for all your attachments going forward. Meeting needs and milestones help the brain develop in a healthy way. If some of these milestones are missed or slowed, you tend to see psychopathology of some kind as a result. Various future relationships are likely to be affected, and more often than not, you respond to your own children the same way-- a type of intergenerational trauma.

And this is only the grey areas. We haven't touched full and proper abuse and how that can affect someone.

The result of DA is that a child will try to push memories and feelings about their caregivers down so that they're not bothered-- they can interact with their caregiver, whatever mood they're in or whatever happened yesterday.

If you just kill your feelings, parent's outbursts don't hurt as much. If you just don't think about what they did to you, you can put on a smile and get through dinner.

This is, in and of itself, dissociation. A rejection of feelings or memories. DA on its own isn't very likely to cause a CDD, but with additional trauma, it's... oof.

Children with DA and suffering from abuse “are likely to generate two or more dissociated self states, with contradictory working models of attachment,” in order to handle their confusing relationship with the caregiver. This can go in several directions, not necessarily a CDD, but it becomes much more likely.

So, the child needs to maintain a relationship with the caregiver– they have no one else to turn to, so the child can develop dissociation as a way to make sense of themselves, and to maintain a child-caregiver relationship. They may “forget” the abuse, or deny it. “It is an adaptive and defensive strategy that enables the child to function within the relationship, but it often leads to the development of a fragmented sense of self.” This fragmented sense of self may or may not develop into something worse– namely, BPD and DID based on severity, frequency, and whether there was any sense of reprieve (i.e. a child can avoid the worst of dissociative symptoms if one of their parents was more supportive, because it helps them build some positive attachments).

I really hope this helps!

Good luck, come back soon!

[arachine]

cross-court . . . (๑>◡๑)

synopsis :: after a long day of patrolling, bakugou wants nothing more than to unwind by taking his furry companion on a stroll near the park. what he doesn’t expect, though, is to run into you. genre :: mature warnings :: smut (18+), characters are in their mid-twenties, phone sex, bakugo is lowkey a creep, maybe just a tiny bit of a loser, mentions of alcohol word count:: 3.7 k note:: this is a really old fic that i edited a bit. couldn’t be asked to edit it further! just wanted to get smth out >_<

The soreness in his bones is definitive proof of a hard day's work. He’d been summoned earlier that afternoon to patrol the perimeter of Kyushu (well, he was asked to pick up a shift for Kirishima and felt obligated to comply), and hadn’t caught a break since. Bakugou expected this much, though. The days and nights were growing warmer, which could only mean that there’d be a significant increase in crime—to his disdain. 

Although he spent most of the day chasing down criminals, there was currently only one thing occupying his mind. And if he could successfully (and quickly) get to his apartment without any obstacles, then he’d have a little more time to see…you. 

He’s not exactly sure when he first noticed you. It’s something that he tries to recall often, but he only ever comes up short, ultimately guessing that you were always there in the background on the days he wasn’t paying attention. The earliest memory of you—and the only one he can vividly remember—is sometime last spring. There you were at the community tennis court, with your racket in hand, dashing gracefully across the cement and skillfully obstructing your opponent’s strokes. 

If it were any other day, sure, he might’ve paid you no mind, but the way your eyes gleamed with determination—like you were certain that you’d win—is what made his stare linger a little longer. Your force on the court was fierce, and care-free, and all encompassing, and if he had a say, he’d say that you were in your own little bubble. So, that’s what he associates you with now. Spring. The season that brought warmth, and clear skies, and cool breezes, and cherry blossoms. 

The elevator ride up to his apartment is short, just as short as the conversation he had with the pro hero who happened to enter the elevator with him. He responds to their attempts at small talk with half-hearted grunts, and sometimes he says nothing at all. Honestly, he doesn’t know why people even bother. Soon, the elevator arrives on his floor with a ding, and he exits without saying a word. 

“Yeah I—oh! Have a good day, Dynamite. Nice tal-” T he elevator shuts before they can finish their sentence. 

As soon as he jiggles his keys in front of the door, his ears pick up the familiar sound of heavy paws and excited barks that belong to his furry companion. Instantly, he’s greeted with slobbery kisses and licks. 

“Alright already…y’damn mutt,” Bakugou hisses, pretending to hate the affection, “quit actin’ like I haven't seen ya in days.” After a minute or two of playing around, he kisses his teeth to call the dog over to where he stands with its collar and leash. 

“Where are we going? Are we going on a walk, girl?” he smoothes a hand over her coat after adjusting the collar around her neck, “we gonna see that pretty girl? Hm, Nala? Yeah we fucking are. Let’s go.” 

He takes this route often just to see you. It’s pathetic, really, and it’s also embarrassingly far from his apartment complex. Makes him feel like one of those creeps who frequent the park to get a glimpse at you—which was what he was kinda already doing—albeit, he liked to persuade himself into thinking his intentions were of pure heart. 

At first, he told himself that he just liked watching you because you were good. You were strong, and fast—quick on your toes and quick with your words. Sometimes, he’d pick up on the shit talking between you and your opponents, and he’d laugh. All low and hearty, nodding his head like he was on the receiving end of the jab. But then he realized one day how odd he must’ve appeared to passerbyers like himself who probably witnessed him laughing along. 

You reminded him of himself, though. And as much as he tried to tell himself that this—or whatever this really was— was just pure and unadulterated admiration, he knew it was just bullshit. Because now he wasn’t just noticing things like your strength, and your quick-wittedness, and your drive for triumph. No, he was starting to take interest in other things—other thoughts. Thoughts that were beginning to sound a whole lot like: ‘I wonder what color panties she’s wearing’ and a lot less like ‘she’s so cool’. 

Soon, every thought at the forefront of his mind was becoming sullied with fantasies of you. He was gradually becoming hyper-aware of the fact that you had a body. And yes, you had arms, and hands, and legs, and feet, and skin—in the way that everyone does—but he was starting to notice something. Your figure.

The cords of muscle in your calves (sinewy and taut, in the way that only muscles can be), your neck, the sleekness of it—a precursor to your chest, and your torso, and your ass. God, your damned ass, and your damned, stupid fucking tennis skirts. It drove him crazy. Seeing you frolick all around the court, in those little skirts that did fuck all at keeping you covered. 

And as much as he wanted to pretend that seeing a flash of your cute little panties for a modicum of a second was the biggest of his concerns…He can’t. Because regardless of his faux disdain for your prancing around in tight clothes, it’s what keeps bringing him back. And he’d keep coming back. Again, and again, and again, and…again, until he worked up the nerve to say something. 

Today he finds that nerve quickly. Not intentionally, unfortunately, but by force. Because today? Today the odds were working in his favor. Today his dog’s dumbass ball happened to roll a little too far in your court. Far enough for it to roll all the way under the gate and to your feet, presenting itself like a silver platter.

Fucking great, he thinks. He wasn’t prepared in the slightest to talk to you, at least not today. But today wasn’t just a day; today was the worst of days, and shit was hitting the fan fare more than he would’ve liked. He’s pulled from his reverie when Nala gets the bright idea to run after the ball, and before he notices, she’s already up and tackling you over. 

So much for first impressions. He’d damn her straight to hell if he could (he wouldn’t), but then he figures he ought to thank his furry companion for piquing your interest because instead of freaking out (like a normal person would after being tackled by an unaccompanied dog), you receive her with open arms. All pets and giggles, praises and kisses. Nice, Nala. 

Now he’s standing there awkwardly, making that one ultra-specific face that owners make when their pets get loose and they don’t know whether to run pathetically after them or let them wreak havoc. Yeah, that one. All he can muster is a slanted smile and a wave of his hand, though from this far, he supposes he just looks weird. 

In a last-ditch attempt, he tries to lure Nala back to where he stands, but to no avail. She’s enamored with you. Giving you paws and kisses, exposing her tummy to you, wagging her tail–but most importantly she’s ignoring him! Maybe he would damn her to hell. 

“Phwt, Nala,” he whistles, rather badly, “stop ignoring me y’damned traitor. I’m your owner. You’re supposed to listen to me…” The last bit comes out in a whisper reserved for himself, but he guesses he wasn’t as quiet as he thought he was, because now you’re making eye contact and rising from your haunches. 

Fuck, you were coming. 

You jog over to where he stands stupidly in his tracks, yelling a loud, “hey, is this your dog?” from across the court. When you get within his proximity, he thinks you’re stretching your hand out to greet him (to which he offers his own), but your limb strategically misses his, and he freezes as he watches you drop the ball in his hand. The blond feels stupid, but he quickly fixes his composure, forcing a stiff smile on his face, trying not to gag at the amount of slobber on his hand. 

“Sorry about that, I get a little carried away whenever a dog’s around” you confess, looking down amicably at the furry giant. Bakugou shakes his head in response, mumbling a cool ‘it’s fine’ under his breath. You’re the first to initiate small talk—a pleasantry he finds vexing—but he finds himself hyper-fixating a little too hard on your lips that are spewing words of triviality. Every now and then, he remembers to nod his head, and then he subconsciously tells you his name when the question arises. 

His irises shift from your plump lips, to the dip in your collarbone, and then finally, they settle on the dew droplets of sweat that trickle down your chest. The pro hero notices that he hasn’t heard a damn thing you’ve said for the entire duration of this conversation. But now you’re looking at him, and your lips aren’t moving, and fuck, you were definitely waiting for a response. 

“Do you wanna fuck?” 

It takes him a second to register you’ve said something, and then it takes him another second to register if what he heard was truly what you’d said. 

“I'm sorry, what?” he queries, wrapping the leash around his hand once, then twice. 

“I asked if you wanted to exchange numbers?” you smile innocently, holding your phone out. 

“I've seen you and this pretty girl,” you start, bending down to pet the excited pup, “walking around for a while, and I figured…I don’t know—that I could play around with her some time. you know, if that’s alright with you…” 

Oh, so he must’ve heard you wrong the first time, he thinks. Looking down at his pup, the two make eye contact briefly before the furry companion barks in approval, wagging its tail eagerly. 

“Yeah, sure,” he nods and gestures for you to hand over your phone. After he punches his digits into your phone, you’re quick to exchange your phone for his, undergoing the same process of punching in little numbers.

When the two of you part ways, he opens his phone again to look at your contact. A small chuckle leaves his lips once he sees the name you saved your number under.

“Tennis girl,” he whispers to himself. 

The door to his apartment swings open swiftly, and he unclasps the leash around the dog’s neck before meandering over to the fridge to grab a beer. The first sip is pure elation. He doesn't drink everyday, but he likes to keep a case of this liquid-gold relief at his disposable. 

Before he can indulge in another sip, his phone buzzes with a notification. Nobody usually has the balls to bother him after his shifts, but he doesn’t think much of it. Not until it buzzes for a second time, then a third, and now he’s agitated enough to rest his drink on the counter. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethes, clobbering over to his room where he threw his phone. The screen flashes brightly from across the room and then fades to black. “Who the fuc—“

He taps the screen to see one message, two image attachments, and a voice memo, all from you. Skeptically, he opens his phone and clicks on your contact to see the messages. The first message says ‘figured you might like these’ and then his vermillion eyes flicker over to the two pictures. 

One is angled low enough to show the bottom of your ass, and the other is of you bent over with your hand pushing your panties to the side, cunt front and center, and dripping. Your face isn’t in either, but he knows it’s you because of that damned skirt. 

The longer he stares at the pictures, the more his face riddles with confusion, and the more his sweats become impossibly uncomfortable to be in. Then he remembers the voice memo. There's a brief silence before a familiar voice begins to speak. It's low and breathy.

“You know—shit—you’re so fucking clueless. I've s-seen you ogling me for months, and t-today I caught you staring at my chest,” he’s almost certain he can see you playing with your pussy with the lewd sounds that are coming through his phone. 

“I asked if you w-wanted to fuck, but you were—fuck—were too caught up in being a p-pervert. Guess you missed your chance...”

The voice note ends there. He utters a few proclivities into the air, sighing frustratedly as he falls back into the marshmallowy plush comforter of his bed. The tightness in his pants is annoying, really fucking annoying, but the dull ache in his cock is much more convincing than the small voice in his head. 

Fumbling to untie the drawstrings, he quickly pulls his sweats, along with his boxers, down to rest at the apex of his thighs. His cock is heavy against his abdomen, the mushroomy head burning scarlet and dripping with silk. God, he hated how easily he had fallen victim to your trickery. He was observant, and quick-witted, and could generally tell when a chick wanted to sleep with him. 

But this? He’d never expected this. Or whatever this really was. He'd watched you from afar all these months, overheard your many idle conversations with friends as you tied your tennis shoes on the bench, and he often caught glimpses of the smile that graced your face whenever you scored a point. You were innocent, then. at least, that’s the conclusion he came to after clandestinely peering into fleeting moments of your life—but now he figures that’s what you wanted him to see, allowed him to see. 

Bakugou's heart begins to thump a little faster with each firm tug to his length, the fixed lub-dub murmur of the organ now something completely unrecognizable. Just as he’s about to shut his eyes, he sees a flash of white from his peripheral view. It’s another text from you. 

tennis girl: left me on read :(

tennis girl: you touching yourself rn?

The boy huffs out a breath and throws his head back, continuing his ruthless ministrations on his aching cock. His ears perk up to the sound of yet another notification. 

tennis girl: want some help ;) 

“The fuck?” His eyes narrow into slits as he reads the message, but he’s too concerned with finishing to respond. When he thinks you’ve finally given up, you once again, prove him wrong. Instead of a few intermittent buzzes, his phone now rings irksomely. You’re requesting a facetime call. He stares at his reflection on the phone, uncertain if he should indulge you or finish without your ‘help’, as you put it, but impulsively picks it up. 

The camera is already flipped once the call goes through. You’re sitting on your bed with your legs spread, and a dildo nestled in your cunt. He hears the creak of the bed as your body thrashes and contorts from pleasure, and he hears the pretty moans that spill from your mouth. Of course, you’re the first to break the silence. 

“‘M so wet ‘cause of you,” your voice is sultry and sweet, “couldn’t wait to get home ’n touch myself…wanna touch you so bad.”

“Yeah?” he asks, you can’t really see him in the dimness of his room, but you know there’s mischief laced in his voice. “Y’wanna touch me? What would you do?” Bakugou squeezes his girth just before bringing a cupped hand to his mouth to spit. 

“Go on, tell me, and then I'll tell y’what I've been dying to do to you for months,” he flips the camera, smoothing the warm spit down his length. 

“Been thinkin’ about taking you to my apartment since i first saw you,” you bring the dildo out momentarily, “and you fucking me like this,” you slam the silicone back into your cunt. The dildo wasn’t nearly as big as he was, but the sight of it disappearing in and out of you made his dick jump pathetically. 

“That all, princess?” he mocks, like he’s unimpressed by your reply. You vehemently shake your head but realize he can’t see your face, so you open your mouth again to speak.

“No…I think a lot about sucking you off too,” you confess, “and how bad I want you to finish down my throat.” 

“So this whole time you’ve been thinking about me like this? What a dirty little slut,” he breathes, a light chuckle leaving his wet, bitten lips.

“Guess it’s my turn now, huh?” Your eyes flutter closed so that you can hone in on his words. 

“For starters,” he says matter-of-factly, “you might wanna get a bigger dildo, ‘cause my dick’s a lot bigger than that.”

“Really?” you pull the dildo out of your cunt and opt to use your fingers instead, resting the cold pads on the swell of your clit. Slowly, you circle the flesh, a few whimpers emitting from your throat. 

“Yeah, it’d—shit—stretch you out b-better too,” his breathing quickens as he begins to reach his peak. “Been wantin’ to dump my load in that pretty little cunt for a minute.” 

“What else?” there’s curiosity nestled under your tongue. You wanna say more to coax him on but find it rather difficult to form a coherent thought. 

“‘Bout your thighs wrapped ‘round my head, and stuffing you full of my fingers,” Bakugou’s calloused  grip is tighter now, sloppier. You assume from his occasional grunts and curses that he’s close to finishing, and judging by your intermittent pants, he comes to the conclusion that you are too. 

With determination, you continue your brutal ministrations on your clit, the nub wholly numb and engorged beneath your fingertips. For a second, you almost forget about the man’s presence, utterly too focused on reaching your own climax, not even paying mind to the fact that your eyes had been glued shut. The sound of slick skin, rubbing against slick skin, reverberates through your phone’s speaker. You’d like to imagine the expressions he’d make if he were here with you now. Would they be soft? Hard? Plain? Or would they be an amalgamation of each. Your imagination doesn’t get the chance to wander too far, because soon, he flips the camera towards his face, almost as if he’d heard your inner monologue. 

The light in his room is still dim, save for the bits of the sun peaking through the blinds that aid in exposing half of his face. Most of his features are subdued by the darkness—all but his eyes (and his flushed cheeks)—which seem to hold so much expression in them. Even with just half of his face on display, he still looks pretty. You attempt to see if you can make out any of the rest of his features, but to no avail. 

“Turn your camera around, wanna see your face,” it comes out more like a demand than a plea. You do as he says and flip your camera. When his eyes find your own, he sits up against his headboard, the second half of his face now uncovered. Seeing all of his features work harmoniously to make a lewd expression was enough to tip you over the edge, and it wasn’t helping that his open-mouthed pants were growing more and more provocative. 

“S-So close, ‘m gonna come!” 

“Fuck, go ahead, baby,” he weakly ruts into his fist, “Show me the face you make when you come.” 

You feel the knot in your lower abdomen begin to wind tighter and tighter, the pressure on your bladder becoming almost unbearable. Your flicking and circling never falter, that is, until you press down on the spot where your bladder resides beneath, and feel an abundance of pleasure wash over you like an unruly tide. The essence that drips from your core stands out starkly against the dark linen of your bed. 

Bakugou watches intently as you whimper and pant through the screen, your chest rising and falling like rose petals in the wind. Your tired, sultry eyes alone are more than enough to make him finish, but then you flip the camera to show your bed and now he’s really close. 

“Look at the mess, you did this.”

“God, you’re so f-fucking dirty,” he grits through bared teeth, “Show me your pretty pussy, yeah?” 

Once his vermillion eyes meet your cunt, dripping and convulsing, he reaches his peak. The boy releases a strangled moan, falling tirelessly onto his back as his cock streams liquid hot white onto the expanse of  his stomach. He uses whatever energy he has left to fist the appendage a few more times, groaning into his neck once he sees the globs of cum coating his knuckles. 

The gentle breeze sneaking in through the window aids in cooling down his hot skin. From the window he can see cherry blossoms dancing in the air; his heart slows as he witnesses a single petal stick to his window. Bakugou is brought back to reality upon hearing your voice. 

“Hope this isn’t the last time,” your face is softer in the afternoon glow, “don’t think I’ve ever come this hard.” There’s some lingering hope hidden in the obsidian of your eyes. He can’t help but to laugh, of course this wouldn’t be the last time. Not after he’d been dreaming of this for months.

“You won’t hafta hope for nothin’, princess. Next time you’ll be gettin’ the real thing.” 

The call ends promptly, and as soon as it does, you get a text. 

Bakugou: Free next Friday night at 8. Come to this address.

Bakugou: xxxxx xxxxx Apt.

Your lips upturn into a mischievous smile. He has no idea…

© arachine 2023

[torahoes]

(IDOLiSH7) Torao Mido - La'Stiara Rabbit Chat

Please note that I am not a professional translator. If you come across any mistakes, feel free to let me know and I will make the necessary corrections.

Touma Inumaru:

Touma Inumaru: Toraaaa

Touma Inumaru: Remember the other day when we talked about going for a drive soon now that the weather’s getting nicer? I found a day off next week 👍

Torao Mido: What’s this? Are you that eager to go on a drive with me?

Touma Inumaru: Oh, would it be better if it’s not so soon? 🤔 If that’s the case, I guess we can just do it another time

Torao Mido: Huh?

Touma Inumaru: Eh?

Torao Mido: Just say you want to go! You said "soon", so next week is perfect, isn't it!?

Touma Inumaru: So that day works for you!? Why can’t you just say you want to go like a normal person!

Torao Mido: If you want to go, I can join you.

Touma Inumaru: Geez, fine, fine! I really wanna go to the beach with you, Tora! 😆

Touma Inumaru:

Torao Mido: The beach, huh. Not a bad idea

Torao Mido: I know a quiet, peaceful spot in Kamakura that doesn't get many visitors. It’s the perfect place to enjoy the view of the ocean.

Touma Inumaru: That's our Tora! 👍 I wonder if they sell Ramune somewhere near the beach… or maybe it's out of season already?

Torao Mido: Ramune? Like the candy?

Touma Inumaru: Not that kind; I mean the one Haru was drinking the other day!

Torao Mido: Ah, the one he said he received after helping out the neighborhood association with his grandma?

Touma Inumaru: Yup, that! Ever since I saw him drinking it, I’ve been craving it too 😆 Drinking it outdoors just makes it taste even better!

Torao Mido: Why do they have a marble ball inside them?

Touma Inumaru: Huh, good question…

Touma Inumaru: Why do they…? Maybe it's because the clinking sound makes it feel refreshing… or something...?

Torao Mido: Well, it did make a nice sound…

Touma Inumaru: Right? Sometimes they sell bottles without the marble, but it's just not as exciting 🤩

Torao Mido: Can you take the marble out?

Touma Inumaru: Nope, you can’t! When I was a kid, my friends and I tried so hard to get it out~~! Man, this brings back memories! 🤩✨

Torao Mido: I looked it up. Apparently, it's there to seal the bottle and keep the carbonation inside

Touma Inumaru: Is that so?!?! The marble actually has an important job, huh

Touma Inumaru: We’re definitely buying ones that have the marble ball! You’re coming shopping with me, Tora! 👍

Torao Mido: Got it. For food, let’s go to that restaurant you recommended before. That’s in Kamakura too, right?

Touma Inumaru: Sounds good, let’s go!! Their seafood rice bowls are insanely good 🤤

Torao Mido: Is it a ticket machine place?

Torao Mido: I should bring cash too. I’ve learned that many older places often don’t accept cashless payments

Touma Inumaru: Tora~~! You adapt way too fast LOL

Touma Inumaru: Nah, it’s the kind where you just place your order with the sweet old lady there. But you’re right; they only accepted cash 😳

Touma Inumaru: Man, you’ve really settled in, Tora!

Torao Mido: Well, there’s nothing I can’t do.

Touma Inumaru: But still, here you are talking about ticket machines and stuff, yet in "La’Stiara" you were looking all cool and glamorous holding that jewel… it's so unfair! 😆 ‼️

Torao Mido: "La’Stiara" has been close with my family ever since I was a kid, and we've been in their care. I doubt there's anyone better suited for this than me.

Touma Inumaru: Seriously!?

Touma Inumaru: So while I was desperately trying to get the marbles out of Ramune bottles and getting excited about pretty pebbles I found lying around, you were already holding actual jewels… 😳 ‼️

Torao Mido: It’s not like I wanted them. I was just supposed to have such things.

Torao Mido: But

Torao Mido: What kind of “pretty pebbles” are you talking about?

Touma Inumaru: Hmm, well, they don't compare to the jewels we held in our photoshoots, but sometimes you find these really clear and beautifully colored stones just lying around! 😳 ✨

Touma Inumaru: Or even ones that are super smooth and shiny! ✨

Torao Mido: Interesting…..

Touma Inumaru: Wanna go look for some next time!? We can invite Haru and Mina too!

Torao Mido: Think they'll come?

Touma Inumaru: Of course they will!! Stuff like this is fun no matter how old you get! 😆

Torao Mido: Is that so?

Torao Mido: Guess I’ll give it a try then

Touma Inumaru: Awesome! I’m happy I've got even more plans with you guys now 👍

Touma Inumaru: I mean, I never would've imagined this was even possible considering how we used to be!

Torao Mido: Touma, you get emotional about this kind of stuff a lot, huh?

Touma Inumaru: Yeah, but can you blame me?!! 😂 Tora starts liking the stuff we like, Haru eats sweets like they’re the tastiest thing ever right in front of us, and we go to the cool restaurants Mina finds together!

Touma Inumaru: What could possibly be better than this? 😂

Torao Mido: Yeah, maybe you’re right

Torao Mido: I think I get how you feel now, Touma

Torao Mido: I have a feeling the pretty pebbles we find together might be worth more than any jewels.

Touma Inumaru: Tora…

Touma Inumaru: I’m reaaallllyyy looking forward to our drive!!!

Touma Inumaru:

Torao Mido: Yeah. I am too

Torao Mido:

The End.

[opal-owl-flight]

Ooh boy, so, how do all the agents feel about the 70mil quota? And the fact it's at 90 mil last I checked....

Also, agents favorite grizzco weapons?

(They dont have fave grizzco weapons bc they dont want to associate with this sleazeball corporation KWJWKJ

More stuff abt the feelings below, though!)

Watching the decimation happening before her, Neo3 can only lay on the ground and cry. Thats everyone. Everything shes done. Shes known. Stolen away in a single night. All her power is nothing before the might of the eternal hunger of this banal evil.

What else can be done?

Her captain comes over, carrying a single egg. She starts, theyre not supposed to be on the field.

Is...it over?

They held the egg close, their voice, barely above a whisper. An apology.

"Im sorry."

She smells the devastation in their scent. Their mask hid nothing. And at that moment, they didnt even try. The marks of dried tears glowed on their face. Their voice is hoarse. Their form slumped, exhausted.

She knows theyve been trying to negotiate peace between the surrounding nations for several years, at this point. Alongside everything else.

Theyre fighting her fight.

What a dishonorable salmonid she is. Laying herself down like this, sneaking around - but she knew better than to do anything rash, now. She knew that will get her killed, or captured, or worse. She cant...she cant risk her captain getting injured again. They just got better.

"Really, I am."

At their soft words, she moves closer to them. Gentle, yet calloused hands, pick her up into a gentle hug. In this hug she can smell their guilt. In this hug she can smell their despair, their powerlessness. And yet...the scent of quiet fury simmers beneath.

They were just like her, in ways she didnt know yet. They too, ran away from their clan, after believing themself a dishonor to them. To save themself. They too, were dragged into a war their ancestors waged. Forced to carry the hopes and dreams of an age long gone.

The dream has changed, but they fight on, all the same.

She hugs them back, feeling the scars under their gear, the oldness of their body. Theyve been fighting longer than she has. With what she can only imagine is a spirit that can rival an elder survivor.

Shes a survivor, too, even if her means were more dishonorable than she wants it to be -- this over-reliance on others to fight her fights instead of doing it all herself, especially an elder survivor -- Has she stooped that low? Elders were meant to stay back, to watch over everyone. This one can barely fight for long anymore. What kind of salmon is she? (Just like 3, shes yet to fully realize the value of accepting help.)

And yet theyre here.

A squid who smelled of yearning, haunted by a past that they drag the dead weight of, ever forward.

Haunted by the specter of what they couldve been. Haunted by their mistakes. Yearning to be a squid that theyre not, anymore. To take the harm their entire nation has done and carry its consequences, all on their own. Be that hero, just like before.

...

And despite all that, their painful joints and trembling form, memories that drown them in yearning, theyre here. Still here. Fighting for their future. Her future. Everyones future.

"...Rest...now." they whisper. "Even one...saved...is still a life."

Their hands trembled, too. Maybe thats why theyre not signing. She held the egg they saved, gingerly, in her hands.

It reflected her face. It reflected her captain.

Its so fragile. All of it.